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It’s official: I make a lousy guy

I collect purses, own small dogs and love things that are pink. I’m what some people would call a girly-girl.


I collect purses, own small dogs and love things that are pink.
I’m what some people would call a girly-girl.


But as much as I love all the perks of being female (nice-smelling body lotion, permanent excuse to go shopping) I’ve always wondered what it would be like to be a guy for a day.


I asked Drew Deyell, co-founder of the recent Guy Show at Lansdowne Park (with years of guy experience to boot) to show me the ropes.


Apparently, being a guy means riding fast-moving vehicles that require you to wear a helmet.
The Spyder roadster is supposed to give you that open-road feeling of a motorcycle with the stability of a car, said Scott MacWilliam, who’s offered to take me for a ride.


He revs the engine and instantly I feel a rush of manly power.
But the thrill is short- lived.


First of all, a skirt is definitely not the wisest wardrobe choice when you’re going from 0 to 100 km/h in four seconds. MacWilliam corners a little too fast and I scream involuntarily, gripping the handles.


Next, I test drive an ATV.


I can handle this one. After all, the only thing you need is a driver’s licence. How bad can it be?
But unaccustomed to the way ATVs handle, I put a little too much gas into it and drive over some orange cones, narrowly missing a parked vehicle.


“Sorry!” I shriek to no one in particular.


The ATV roars over a steep bank, tipping dangerously to one side. Scared to step on the gas or to reverse, I sit there, waiting for God — or gravity — to decide my fate.


After I’ve recovered from my scare, Deyell steers me over to the hot sauce booth, where we taste-test of some of the hottest sauces on the market.


I want it made clear that I’m no wimp when it comes to epicure. I’ve got a cast-iron stomach and can eat anything.


But even a tiny dab of “Hurricane Mash” is too much. My eyes fill with tears and my nose runs.
Next, we play a game of paintball.


“The only way you can get hurt is if you’re shot between the eyes,” Paint Storm owner John Deveau assures me.


Once the shooting starts, I freeze. I don’t care that Deveau says it won’t hurt; I don’t believe him. I huddle behind the pillar, unable to will myself to move.


OK, so I make a lousy guy. I loathe dirt, fear bugs and am generally too big of a weenie.


As convenient as it would be to pee standing up and have short hair, and as nice as it is would be not to have to endure childbirth, I’ve decided it’s just not worth it.


 
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