Every man comes to a day of reckoning once in a while. I’m not talking about THE day of reckoning, just the day you wake up and realize exactly who you are because you see all your faults a little more clearly.

This is a sobering kind of reflection. Faults are not easy to admit. It’s hard to be honest with yourself when you go through life thinking you’re an okay guy with good friends and a reasonable sense of humor.

But the truth is, all men have secrets to hide. We say we don’t care what people think, but deep down we know we could do better. We pretend like our faults don’t exist, or at least that they don’t matter. We tend to ignore our quirks and flaws. But the day comes when a man has to face himself and dance to the music.

So, in an effort to set men free no matter their creed or religion or outlook on life, I am laying it all out for the greater good. My example probably won’t save the world, but if it turns one brother toward a better path, then my work will be done.

Confession #1. Every T-shirt I own has a stain on the front of it. I can’t seem to have a new T-shirt that looks worth a darn more than a week. Spaghetti stains. Grease stains. Paint stains. Oil stains. Stains I can’t identify. Small spots. Large blotches. Marks of all kinds. I have no idea how most of them got there.

I’ll put on my favorite T and walk out amongst the public, thinking I’m dressed well for the day. My buddy will say to me, “What’s that on your shirt?”

“What?”

“That spot on your belly the size of a dead rat.”

I look down, grab the tail of my shirt and pull it out so I can see it. “Dang. How’d that get there?”

This confession is multi-tiered. It means I never look at my clothes in the mirror before I leave the house. Women are good at this. It explains why you never see a lady with a greasy blotch on the front of her shirt. Men never look and thus end up at the grocery store with butter smeared across their shirts.

It also means that I have no idea how to wash a stain out of a shirt. I hear women all the time talking about stain removers, Tide pens, and the old tried and true ways that mama passed along. Sure-fire ways to get even the toughest stains out of a shirt.

Me? I put my clothes in the washer with a wish and a prayer. If it comes out clean, I consider myself a lucky man.

I have two piles of T shirts in my closet. One pile is suitable for public appearances. The other much larger and ever-growing pile is made up of what I call “work shirts,” which means that I can get more stains on them and not care.

Confession #2. I have lost control over when and where I go to sleep. Most people sleep at night in their bed, which I do with a greater and lesser degree of success, depending on the phases of the moon and the elasticity of certain isolated parts of my anatomy.

The problem is that I can fall asleep almost any time of day, anywhere on the planet. Places where a normal man should not necessarily sleep.

Take for example dinner the other night. Marion and I went to visit with some friends for supper. Her long-time friends. Friends with whom she’s gone to Guatemala on mission trips. Friends whom I only knew from a few brief encounters. It was my opportunity to get to know them better and make a lasting impression.

They served a great meal. The conversation was hilarious. I was completely enjoying the night.

Around 9pm I yawned. We were still sitting at the table. I should have suggested we get up and walk out on the back porch or something. But I felt like my eye contact was good. I was engaged.

Then, without warning, my big old head fell forward and snapped back so hard I felt the vertebra in my neck crack. My new friends across the table were staring at me when I came to my senses. If I could have crawled in a hole under the table, I would have disappeared.

This particular flaw of mine is not news to my preacher, or my kids, or anyone for that matter. I am a chronic head-bobber. As long as I’m moving, I’m good. But if I get still, I’m gone.

Confession #3. I do not dust. I know this may not seem like a flaw, but I know better. Since I have become the main caretaker for my home, I have had to learn many disciplines which heretofore have never been a part of my domestic responsibilities. I know how to vacuum. I can mop if I have to. I keep the clutter to a minimum. I am good at sink, shower, and toilet cleaning.

I stink at dusting.

I just don’t think about it. I know it sounds like an excusoe a teenager would make, but I don’t see it. The dust on the TV stand can be an inch thick and I don’t even know it’s there until I go to move something. I’ll touch a DVD case and realize, “Man, this thing is really dusty.”

My response? I wipe the case on my pant’s leg and put it back. It never occurs to me that the table is dusty, too. I figure that God gave us dust, so who am I to decide whether it should live or die.

Here’s the thing. I am married to a woman who in her retired world still cleans houses a few days a week. She’s a pro at things like dust.

She’s sitting in my family room. Only one lamp is on. The light is low, at best. We’re watching a movie. At least, I’m watching a movie. She comments.

“Look at that dust on your TV stand.”

“What dust?”

“There’s an inch of dust on that table so thick I can see it from here.”

“It’s dark.”

“I can still see it.”

“What do you want me to do about it?”

“Don’t worry. I’ve got it. I’m gonna dust this whole room in the morning.”

Not long ago she bought me some dusting thingies, rag-like wiper devices, so that when she comes over, she’ll have something to work with at my house.

Confession #4. I’m a male. This alone is explanation enough for the female of the species.

I could go on, but I’m feeling a little down after pouring out my soul. Plus, I’ve got housework to do.

I’ve washed two loads of T-shirts this morning. None of the stains came out. I’m falling asleep at this computer which is m$^ki#g *t hurd 2 tope th#s sturry. My blinds on the kitchen windows have vintage 2023 dust on them and it’s driving me crazy.

No, wait! Marion just dusted those a few weeks ago.