I stumbled upon an interesting blog post today (http://thecaveatlector.wordpress.com/2012/08/13/on-being-a-man-for-realsies/). While I encourage you to read it (as my summary is going to be woefully inadequate and not as funny as the blog post), here is the Cliff’s Notes version:
- The blog author is taking another guy (Roosh) to task for his tips and instructions on how to be a “real man” – the kind of man who doesn’t give a ___, thinks with his groin, punctuates sentences with “bro”, and settles disagreements with his fists. The type who has steel pipe for sale and drinks beer every night. Apparently, Roosh* believes that if you are not always looking to hook up with women, beat up guys for looking at you sideways, or doing anything that remotely qualifies as weak, then you are not a man.
*I’m quite positive that 1) “Roosh” rhymes with douche, and 2) I’m not the first person to make that joke.
Frankly, I beg to differ. And while I don’t need to defend my man credentials to some wanna-be alpha male who needs months of therapy, the post did stir up some feelings in me:
I’m a man.
I cry, I have compassion for others, and genuinely want people to be happy.
I love football, drink bourbon, and can drop a bathroom bomb that sets off sensors at the EPA.
I have no desire to hunt wild game, gamble on sports, or become “ripped”. I use a mechanic for anything more complex than changing a tire, and if a home improvement project goes beyond a paint brush, I’m calling a professional.
I can talk sports with the boys, drink you under the table, and bust chops with the best of them. I change diapers, I get up with my infant son at 3 am, and I sing songs and dance with my daughter.
I don’t hate shopping, and I buy my own clothes. I’d rather watch “Chopped” than MMA. And yes, I can grill a steak with the best of them.
Despite my last name, I have never been in a fight.
I was a horrible wing-man, and I have yet to figure out how I managed to get a second date with somebody as smart and beautiful as my wife – let alone marry her. I am not afraid to drive the minivan, push the stroller, or carry the diaper bag.
If this make me less of man in some d-bag’s straight-out-of-Maxim definition of manliness, then so be it. Because this man could give two shits what you think of me or my worth to my gender.
I’m a man.
Maybe when you grow up*, you can be a man too.
*assuming you do not die of syphilis first.