I went halves on three kids, but does that make me a man - Oh Hell no! Being a man was learned - I thought - by watching real men love their wives, care for their children, remember God's hand in all things, meet obligations, honor commitments, stoically take set-backs and affronts, dust one's self off when failure does a smash-up on our egos. That sort of thing.
I'm off the hook! Not in the modern sense of being 'really keen,' but in my old male sense of -unencumbered by obligations.
Here's the word from the lovely Nancy Morgan!
The Girly Men are back. With a vengeance. And I expect they'll be granted a front row seat in any and all national conversations for the next four years. They are the new and improved version of men. Designed by feminists and launched in a successful frontal assault on America's outdated notion of masculinity.
Gone are the masculine heroes of yesterday - the John Wayne's and the General Patton's. Gone are the the testosterone laden warriors and the outdated dudes who think their job is to protect women. They've been banished to the fringes of the 'politically acceptable', along with all the men who don't shave their chest hair. (And they don't even have 72 virgins to console them. Virginity has been banned as, well, unacceptable for any self-realized woman. Or girl.)
The new improved Girly Men are marching, (mincing) in lockstep in front of anyone who will watch, patting themselves on the back for having 'evolved'. These men have swallowed whole the feminist mantra that This Is What Women Want. A new, sensitive man. A man not afraid of feelings, a man in touch with his inner self who has the, yes, the raw courage, to shed the shackles (whew) of masculinity.
No longer will these men have to battle for their place in the pecking order by the old (brutal) traditional means. It has been decided by popular vote that feelings will now determine social ranking. Acerbic wit will replace arm wrestling. Tears will replace stoicism, dialogue will replace confrontation and liposuction will replace rippling muscles.
Thank God! I have been sucking in my, what used to be refered to as 'gut,' Amber Waves of Lard. I can now get a full body tan - and well do I need that . . .once I ask Seth to razor and wax all the hair off of me.
A New Age marked by a Dionysian sensibility has hugged the Nation. This New Age of Theban Maleness will allow much less attention to manly details like making my son Conor wipe up the assorted sauces, spices, condiments and clean the sinkful of pots, pans and skillets.
'Hey, look, Bub! This is not what being a man is all about. You do not leave a mess for your little sister to clean up, much less your silver-haired Pappy. Take care of your own messes.'
'Like you, I suppose.'
'Indeed. Look, Sally, this is not a debating society get busy.'
Now, I can get mellow. 'Conor's sloth might not necessarily lead him into membership of Order of Chaeronea, but it sure is nice not to level up the old testicle barometer to full Dad Rage Levels. Chill, Daddy-o!'
If Putin wants to incinerate Poland, let the man Dance! Babies? I got three! Let a woman liposuction some life out with those unwanted rolls of lard with Dr. Gaddam Gupta! Chill, baby. Christmas is for squares. God is a nap. Time for Sex in the City! I can have Clare's 8th Grade girlfriends in for a sleepover and play re-runs to show them just what women need to appreciate! It's all good.
I can feel breasts sprouting! Hey, at this point I'll have Knee Knockers by 2012!
What Golden Age this might be! I am going to rent some Will and Grace - never saw that; get me a full length mirror; get in some sweet quality time with the Metro guys at a really Happening gym. Cry, again. Watch Oprah! Look concerned while silently saying 'As if!' Read less and watch more! Chill.
I wonder if they have just the right oils at CVS.
