David Andreatta

@david_andreatta

Hunting season for me is sort of an Advent calendar of emasculation, when each day reveals a fresh reminder of what a cupcake I really am.

The signs are everywhere.

That pickup with a buck in the bed and a brass scrotum dangling from the bumper. Those red-knuckled men in camouflage at the diner recounting their weekend in the woods. The friend who repays a favor with a cut of venison he field-dressed himself.

Even at Thanksgiving, I stared at that bird on the table and marveled at how the pilgrims did it. Then I wondered whether they still make those guns that look like bassoons.

These episodes tap a deep-seated anxiety that should the job of rebuilding civilization after an apocalypse ever fall to me, the human race would be wiped out in six weeks. It's a terrible burden to bear.

That's why I want in. I'm serious. Next hunting season, I plan to stare down a skittish creature with eyes like Marty Feldman through a scope attached to (insert make and model of something that shoots bullets here, perhaps a bassoon) and pull the trigger.

I'm not bloodthirsty. I'm just tired of being a hypocrite and feeling deficient. I love meat, and I get that for me to eat it, someone has to kill it. That someone just hasn't been me yet.

It's not my fault. I wasn't raised that way.

Hunting is a culture that's passed down from generation to generation. My father taught me many things, but being handy and an outdoorsman weren't among them.

His toolbox consisted of a hammer, a screwdriver and a rusty pair of pliers. There wasn't a power tool to be found. He could've been mistaken for Amish had it not been for the invectives he'd hurl whenever he tried to fix anything around the house.

The same feeling of inadequacy overcomes me whenever I visit my sister, who's married to a man who's everything I'm not.

One time, as my brother-in-law described the finer points of his new air compressor, I made the mistake of asking when he'll ever need an air compressor. To which he replied, "When don't you need an air compressor?" I didn't know the answer to that, either.

Like everyone else with a tool belt, my brother-in-law hunts. He'd let me tag along, but he lives halfway up the Arctic Circle past armed border guards with strict rules about crossing with things like meat, Chinese mitten crab and some citrus fruits.

Basically, getting there can be a pain in the neck.

Every year I ask friends of mine who hunt if I could join them. I'm upfront about my shortcomings: No gun, never fired a gun, no hunting license or experience tracking game.

When my boys asked me what animal left the pile of "black jellybeans" in our backyard, the only way I could answer was to Google a photograph of it. Turns out it was a deer.

No wonder my friends get shifty-eyed and hem and haw about not having enough room in their cabin. When I tell them I'll sleep in the car, they tell me, "You need a permit for that."

I checked. You don't.

What humiliation! I never wanted to be that guy. I don't want to be Jeremiah Johnson, either, but I'd like to be able to impart some survival skills to my sons should it start raining frogs tomorrow.

A lot is lost in the way carnivores like me consume meat. There's no respect for how the meal got to the table. That's because it's impossible to learn humility from an animal you've only known wrapped in Styrofoam and cellophane.

I want to be more grateful for the food I enjoy.

That doesn't mean I intend to stop buying meat at the grocery store. But it does mean that at least once, I want to know what it means to take a life that will help sustain mine.

The state Department of Environmental Conservation tells me I'll have to wait until next year to take the safety course required for my hunting license. In the meantime, I can observe a hunt.

So consider this a plea to you hunters out there: Take me with you. Please.

I'll even bring cupcakes.

Twitter.com/david_andreatta