On Male Brazilians And Revealing Ethnic Origins Through Cussing

Today was a painful day; twice, I encountered good old-fashioned physical pain. None of that fancy, dark night of the soul, melancholic stuff. You needed topical balms for this, not therapy. (Though I suppose opiates would help both varietals.)

Incident Numero Uno (in which I inadvertently receive a varietal of a Male Brazilian): Shortly after I had finished working out at my gym this afternoon, I collected my sore body and my gear, and began the walk back to the subway station to catch my train back home. On the way, I stopped to talk to a friend of mine; she was crossing the same street. We commiserated about some bureaucratic nightmares she is currently experiencing, and as we talked, I began removing a pair of taped straps from my wrists. I had been using these while performing two sets of heavy front squats a little earlier, and had forgotten to remove them. This procedure is always a little painful, thanks to the presence of hairs on my wrist–I am not unusually hirsute and carry a standard complement in that location. As usual, I moved gingerly and slowly, an action which did not fail to catch the attention of my friend who offered to help by delivering a short, sharp yank to the remaining part of the white tape. She did so, perhaps adding an emphatic flourish, and I let out an agonized yelp.  We both stared in some astonishment at the strip of tape that had just been torn off my right wrist: it was flecked with many a hair that had formerly adorned my wrist. At that moment, I felt deep empathy and sympathy for all those countless women who have undergone the agonies of a Brazilian to prepare for a season at the beach. How do they ever do it? Why do they? Patriarchy has a lot to answer for.

Incident Numero Dos (in which I am reminded of my ethnic origins): I returned home, my wrist still smarting, determined to feed myself well after my grueling workout. I entered the kitchen and set about making some scrambled eggs to accompany a leftover hot Italian sausage from last night’s dinner. After whipping up a rather tasty looking four-egg medley, I moved the pan over to where my plate lay and then, absentmindedly, reached for a serving utensil to begin ladling my preparation out. I had cooked the eggs with a wooden spatula, but forgetting that momentarily, I reached for one with a metallic handle. Unfortunately, this one, lying on the cooking range, had been exposed to the flame of my cooking for several minutes. As I grabbed it, a searing, agonizing, pain shot through my hand. I dropped the spatula, and stared at my hand, which showed two burns forming rapidly–one on my little finger, and one on my palm–even as I cursed loudly and pungently. Two cusswords had emanated. Both were in Punjabi. Modesty forbids me provide any more detail than that. Old instincts die hard. I wouldn’t have it any other way.


2 comments on “On Male Brazilians And Revealing Ethnic Origins Through Cussing

  1. My paternal grandfather was francophone, but only ever spoke English at home, so the only French my father learned as a kid was the wonderful Québecois swearwords: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Quebec_French_profanity.

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