Yesterday I crammed the family into the car and drove out to the suburbs for my brother-in-law's birthday. We were supposed to be there at 3:00pm, but at my urging, we had left the city plenty early.

I don't do many things well. I can't play an instrument or dance. I'm unable to cook or fix things around the house. I drool in my sleep.

I am one bad-ass mo-fo when it comes to being on time though. I elegantly slice my way through the fourth dimension like an athlete. It's marvelous to behold.

Unfortunately, another thing I'm bad at is remembering directions. I have virtually no sense of direction. So, we're cruising up and down the main boulevard in the city of San Ramon, looking for something, anything, familiar. Thankfully we're a little early, so there's plenty of time to drive around.

The minutes tick by as I slowly come to the realization that I don't know how to get where we're going. My wife asks if she should call my family and ask for directions. Not yet. Not just yet.

I simultaneously keep my eye on the clock and on the road. They're converging in a sickening way.

Then, I'm at the moment of decision. Do I continue searching for my destination, risking being late? Or do I cave and ask for directions. Do I poke out my own eye or chop off a testicle? Same question.

I mean, being on time is the ONE THING that I do really really well. When I die, people will say, "Mike was kind of a surly bastard, but goddamn he was punctual." So, do I sacrifice a piece of what I best represent in the interest of not asking for help? Or, do I do what no self-respecting man does, and acknowledge that I'm testosterone-deficient by asking for directions?

To be or not to be? Rock! Hard place!! AAAAAAAAAAH!!!

So, I sliced off my left nut and called for help. We walked up to their house at exactly 3:00pm.

Am I proud? No. Would I do it the same way all over again? Sure, I've got one more testicle.