Yesterday, during a meeting, I consciously decided to suspend my DTD instincts and revert back to my more base level maleness. I found myself in a discussion with a very attractive, single, early thirties young lady that I had just met. She took an instant (most likely plutonic) liking to me and I stole glances at all her fun areas as she spoke. I used the “W” word early on in the conversation in case she didn’t happen to notice my ring—a sad, knee-jerk act I must have defaulted to as if the girl was going to steal me away to the supply closet for a noon-er if I didn’t squelch that option early on.

As I tired of checking out her fun areas, I realized that she was talking quite a bit. Even she realized she was talking quite a bit, as she mentioned over and over that she was talking quite a bit and probably boring me with inane anecdotes about people that I didn’t know. She was correct on all counts.

At first I didn’t mind as I was checking out her fun areas—I might have mentioned this already—and in the back of my mind I thought that MRS might call me out of the blue to tell me what a great husband I am and why don’t I go ahead and take a run at some fresh as a reward for my fabulous husbandry. Curiously enough, I never received that phone call, nor do I ever expect to receive such a call in the future. Not that even with such permission would I consider extra-martital sexy-time since the permission would undoubtedly be retroactively revoked, landing me in a world of hurt reserved for fresh meat at Shawshank. I’d also be quite concerned about all these new-fangled STD’s floating around the 21st Century and I’d end up killing “the moment” with my potential tryst as I doused myself in head-to-toe industrial-strength latex.

And as my new friend rambled on in all her regular-guy-attainable hotness, I realized that this is why God invented alcohol. 6-drink Mitch could endure this verbal diarrhea for the chance at some late night hi-jinx, but sober Mitch, armed with either marital permission or even single-man freedom, would have no choice but to pawn this chatty lady off on the next unsuspecting and preferably drunker dude looking for a little action.

Mercifully, our little tête-à-tête was broken up, and my DTD instincts gradually circulated back into my bloodstream. My fidelity remained intact—not that there was an actual threat to its perfect record. And my little friend went on about her day, probably never once evoking my memory.

I realize that my identity as “husband” and “dad” has so firmly entrenched itself in my being that I couldn’t change it if I wanted to. Fortunately, I don’t want to. I’ve got a pretty good gig and I’d be a moron to screw it up.

But it is good to know that I can at least suppress the DTD instincts for just a few minutes if need be. Just because I’ve been neutered doesn’t mean I’m no longer a man. Right? Nothing wrong with checking out those good old fun areas once in a while.