Sneakers squeak, whistles bleat, men shriek … must be March Madness

This is the time of year when women shrug off the fact that God gave us the burden of childbirth. And, we all but forget that we earn 77.4 cents for every dollar our male counterparts earn.

Neither compare to the outright injustice of not having our very own March Madness.

The electric shock of giddiness and kiddiness that strikes every man in North America during the National Collegiate Athletic Association basketball tournament is truly one of the most beautiful bonding rituals ever to exist. So, someone please tell me why on earth it belongs to men and not women.

Bonding is our thing. We make our ownership of it clear in grade school with a little thing called slumber parties. We carry it through life with buddy-system bathroom trips, "Sex and the City" marathons, bunco groups, zumba classes, mommy blogs, movies that feature men running through airports to catch the love of their life, the art of scrapbooking and, last but not least, bridal magazines. Women use all of these things to bond with other women. And then we get married and seek professional advice to get men to do it, only to realize they have an entire month dedicated to the practice.

I got married in November. My husband had his bachelor party in March. He's not normally that early to a party, he just desperately wanted for two monumental male bonding events to join forces.

This is what that looks like in my head: Him and his college buddies holding hands, skipping in slow motion toward a majestic fountain that pours equal parts beer and debauchery. Their bare chests are painted green and white, representing Michigan State, as they make their way through a field of daisies. (Daisy fields always show up at times like this.) All the while, Dick Vitale can be heard shouting "March Madness bachelor party, baby!"

I know, it's crazy. I would never marry one of those guys who paints his chest. But that visual perfectly demonstrates my jealousy of March Madness. It's not about college basketball. It's about the connection men make with other men while watching a race that doesn't slow down until a step ladder and scissors are placed under a hoop.

The most comparable annual event women had was probably Oprah's Favorite Things episode. We didn't rally the troops to view it, though. We didn't observe it like a national holiday, either. My husband has vacation time scheduled during the tourney. He's already warned me our TV will blast nothing but skidding sneakers and blowing whistles and that shouting men will occupy our living room through the weekend. He's probably researching right now whether our TV's screen-in-screen feature has a screen-in-screen feature.

Men become obsessed with this thing. I credit the nail-biting pace of it all. It's enough to get the Dalai Lama's blood pressure at Tom Izzo levels. The alliteration assigned to every aspect of the event probably contributes in some strange psychological way, too.

The literary practice of putting two words together that start with the same sound doesn't begin and end with the Sweet Sixteen, Elite Eight or Final Four. Today is Selection Sunday, for crying out loud. OK, March Madness, we get it. The Fabulous Fans, not to be confused with the Fab Five, get it.

The Fabulous Fans, by the way, aren't just sports nuts. The force of March Madness brings fans out from the darkest of office storage closets.

The dude in IT who fluently speaks Klingon suddenly speaks bracketology. The obnoxious guy in advertising rocks a University of Nevada, Las Vegas jersey the first casual Friday of the tournament. The second casual Friday? He rocks a University of North Carolina jersey. That's even worse than the manager who roots for the obvious No. 1 seed because he once had a long layover in Kentucky.

It all comes down to the brackets. Every respectable office in this country, even the big oval one, fills out a bracket.

Anytime a wager relies on a one-and-done situation that involves 67 games, the intensity mounts. With just one buzzer beater, one torn ACL, one bad call, everything can change. And when everything changes, it can mean pure and utter devastation or pure and utter joy. They both look the same in Las Vegas: men staring at the sky with tears pouring down their cheeks and onto their sports book tickets.

I watched two grown men experience pure and utter joy two years ago. Michigan State hit a 3-point buzzer-beater for an 85-83 victory against the University of Maryland in the second round. A friend of ours jumped up and down as he carried my husband in the Baby Bjorn position through a bar.

The display depressed me for one reason. The burden of childbirth and the ridiculous wage gap I can get over. Never having a friend carry me in the Baby Bjorn position through a bar, I cannot.

Contact columnist Xazmin Garza at xgarza@reviewjournal.com or 702-383-0477. Follow her on Twitter @startswithanx.