[dropcap]I[/dropcap]n Publix, I saw a young man wearing a shoulder sling. He was trying to reach something from the top shelf, and he was struggling.

I would’ve offered to help him, but it doesn’t work that way. We men are a proud bunch. We have an unwritten rule: thou shalt not help another male, unless he’s bleeding all over the floor. In such an instance, by all means, go and get that man a mop.

I strolled down the shopping aisle, crossing things off my wife’s list. My buggy was full of masculine items, such as as kale, organic goat milk, and red quinoa.

“Sir,” Shoulder-Sling asked me. “You mind helping me out?”

“Sure, you need a mop?”

“Huh?”

“Never mind.”

What the young man needed was a jar from the top shelf, so I helped him by retrieving it. He thanked me.

When I asked Junior how he dislocated his shoulder, he said that he’d won a victory. In fact, he was downright proud of his sling.

Boys.

He explained, “I was at a party, in Rosemary Beach, and this guy started talking trash. Well, this dude’s calling me names, and then he finally goes too far, pushes me over the edge.”

“And you whooped him?”

“No, the dude bet me twenty bucks I couldn’t lick my elbow.”

Job well done kid.