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What timing! I'd just worn a hole through my llama wool sweater and used up the last of my patchouli-scented soap when I got the memo that "metrosexual" was out and "machosexual" was in. Women, it seems, have tired of men with hairless chests, so they've changed the rules, and the old macho is back in vogue. From now on, guys need to look and act tough -- at a minimum, tough enough to open jelly jars without having to run them under hot water.Taking my marching orders, the first thing I did was to exhale for the first time in three years, letting my belly settle back into its natural position draped over my belt. I then canceled my membership in the Tiramisu-of-the-Month club.
Gone, too, was the easy sympathy I doled out to my three-year-old daughter after she pulled the head off her Polly Pocket doll for the 12th time. "Now it's a Marie Antoinette doll," I told Quinn, knowing that tough love was the best love. Gone was my simple acquiescence when my wife, Jennifer, informed me we'd be watching the Melissa Gilbert retrospective on Lifetime Television.
"Sorry," I told her, "this TV has been reserved for a special edition of 'Killing Cattle With Mike Ditka.' "
Part of the machosexual compact is to fulfill traditional male roles -- to be the rock, the decision-maker. So as commander-in-chief of our little tribe, I canceled our family trip to Hersheypark. "Machosexuals," I explained, "don't have chocolaty good times. We have adventures." But being a benevolent dictator, I presented an alternative.
"Who wants to go bareback rhino racing in Zimbabwe?" I asked.
Machosexuals are a patient lot, so when Jennifer said, "No, we're going to Hersheypark," I knew that perseverance was in order.
"Wanna take a steam bath in an active volcano in Indonesia?"
"No."
"Fly a MiG-29 at mach 3 over Moscow, going 60,000 feet straight up in the air at a 90-degree angle until the engine stalls and we tumble back to earth in a free fall, coming just ten feet off the ground before pulling up?"
"No."
"Kayak down Victoria Falls? Go skinny-dipping in the Arctic? Walk over to the mini-mart and eat five-day-old sushi?"
No, no and no.
"You don't like to have fun, do you?"
Click! Jennifer turned on the TV and raised the volume until Melissa Gilbert's voice drowned mine out.
Then, after much wrestling over the remote, we agreed that I should be kicked out of the house.
So off I stomped to the nearest watering hole to be with my fellow bulls. I was glad to see everyone had read the same memo as me. Gone were the cosmopolitans and chocolate martinis. In their place was only one choice: "Barkeep," I said, "gimme a Milwaukee's Best!" A cold, frothy one appeared before me.
There was backslapping, swearing and a quick debate on wearing helmets while motorcycling (everyone was against it). And we used the old bar food favorite, edamame beans, to throw at a poster of Brad Pitt.
After raising a glass to the machosexuals of yore -- Bogie, Duke Wayne, Attila the Hun -- we took out our knives and whittled some sticks before calling it a night. Back home, I snuck into the house to avoid Jennifer. We machosexuals pick our battles and in so doing know that tiptoeing is not the same as retreating.
In the living room I found Quinn crying over her headless doll as Jennifer struggled with duct tape.
I grabbed some glue, and Jennifer handed me the doll. I reattached the head as best I could. It slipped a bit before drying, giving it that cock-eyed, self-assured look that's so attractive in a plastic doll. Quinn climbed into my lap, and the three of us played with her Polly Pockets.
Who knew playing with dolls could be so much fun?
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