Unmanned by the copy machine

Yesterday while standing at the copy machine, I was overcome with deep feelings of shame and embarrassment. The copy machine is located near the office kitchen area and it was around lunch time, so there was a fair amount of traffic around me while I made a copy of a manuscript. A few of the people who passed were attractive women. Their mere presence was enough to inspire my shame. Why did something I've done for years suddenly seem so unbecoming and undignified? I wasn't sure. I was sure, though, that John Wayne or Steve McQueen probably never touched a copy machine in their lives (although after seeing this Charles Bronson ad for Mandom, I could be wrong). The only example of a grown man making copies I could think of was The Copy Guy from the old Saturday Night Live bit, the imbecile who coined unlikely nicknames ("The McStingster") and kept repeating the line, "makin' copies," like an idiot whenever he was at a loss for words. Did I fear that others would assume I was a moron like The Copy Guy because I was just "makin' copies," too? Possibly. I know I have judged other men, perhaps irrationally, for sucking on a lollipop or eating an ice cream cone in public. I remember once, on the bus, the rising anger I felt when a man my age took a seat at the front of the bus and spent the entire trip smiling ear-to-ear at nothing in particular. By the time I got off the bus, I wanted to clobber him.

Maybe there is something wrong with me.