A relative was lecturing me the other day on the need in this country for more men to let their feminine side show.
“How are we supposed to do that?” I asked her, not exactly sure what she meant. “Can you give me a few examples?”
“Oh, I’m not talking about you, silly,” she said with a not very reassuring pat on the shoulder. “You’re plenty feminine!”
Later that evening, as I sat by myself in my backyard watching the sun go down, her somewhat alarming words kept banging around in my head. I even began to worry that maybe I’m not the truly authentic American male I’ve always imagined myself to be. And the more I thought about it, the more I had to admit to myself that I have never been very good at `guy stuff’.
For example, I have always hated, with a passion, working on cars. Over the years, I have reluctantly learned how to pump my own gas and where to pour the water and oil (the water goes in the bigger hole), but the thought of spending hour after hour up to my elbows in grease and auto parts has never really been very appealing to me.
I also dislike fishing (this probably goes all the way back to a long-ago Dillon Beach weekend I spent catching a couple of hundred perch only to learn that they all had to be hauled over this high cliff and cleaned). I guess I just have never quite understood the attraction of sitting around quietly for hours on end in an uncomfortable boat or on a hot, dusty riverbank pitting one’s mentality against that of a fish.
Hunting is even worse than fishing and the one time I went was plenty for me. There were – and this is no exaggeration — crazed people in orange jackets everywhere with powerful rifles in their hands shooting at absolutely anything and everything that moved. Plus, after spending a year strolling around in the jungles of Vietnam trying to avoid ambushes, I have developed this deep empathy for the hunted.
I also don’t like to go camping. The thrill of going without a shower for three or four days and sleeping on the hard ground basically lost all of its appeal to me while I was overseas playing war. Plus, my most vivid memory of going camping is not a very pleasant one. When I was about ten, my dad drove the whole family up to Sly Park for a wonderful weekend in the great outdoors, only to discover that he forgot to bring the tent poles. I did manage to learn a whole lot of new cuss words over the weekend, however.
I also never much liked drinking beer. Not only do I not particularly enjoy the taste of it, but every time I look at a can of the stuff, I end up thinking back to an all-night Colt 45 party I once attended at my college fraternity house where, during the course of the evening, I think I died and went to heaven approximately a half-dozen times.
I am also horrible at fixing things around the house. I can replace light bulbs and little things like that but anything more complicated is completely out of the question. In fact, when my daughter recently broke up with her boyfriend my first sympathetic words to her were, “why in the world did you do that? He’s really handy. Now who’s going to fix things around here?”
“How come you look so depressed tonight?” asked my wife as she stepped out into the backyard and sat down next to me in a chaise lounge.
“Oh, I’ve been thinking about something that’s all. By the way, I’ve got a question for you.”
“What kind of question?” she asked.
“Well, would you say I have an exaggerated feminine side? Be honest now.”
“What?” she asked smiling.
“I’m serious. I guess you probably don’t think of me as a man’s man, do you?”
“Oh, I’m afraid you’re a man alright,” she said with an even bigger smile.
“Is that right?” I said, sitting up a little straighter in my chair and sticking out my chest.
“Yep,” she said. “No doubt about it. You’re 100% male.”
“Could you be a little bit more specific?” I asked, hoping to hear her say that I was a great lover or maybe that my walk reeks of masculinity.
“Well, for one thing”, she explained, “you can’t balance a checkbook. Why is it that men can’t balance a simple checkbook? And, like most men, you would quickly die of starvation if you didn’t have some poor woman to cook for you. Plus, you’re incapable of buying, washing, or ironing your own clothes. You go ballistic if somebody misplaces the TV clicker, and all the kids have you wrapped around their little fingers. And you never want to get up out of your rocking chair and do anything fun. And while I’m on the subject, you also…”
“Thanks!” I interrupted her, “I just needed to be reassured.”