Some weeks are so humdrum and dreary that absolutely nothing happens worth writing about. This was one of those weeks. However, mere monotony is not enough to cause the journal entries you have all come to know and love to go on hiatus; rather, I am given an opportunity to talk about things not related to my weekly life. In this case, I think it is high time that I addressed a problem that is currently assaulting our great nation. Yes, I’m speaking about metrosexuality.
I feel I must ask: since when have men as a body decided the opinions of undersexed, hormonally-charged, overly-imaginative 13 year-old girls ought to serve as a basis for what is considered sexually desirable in men? When girls hit adolescence, they suddenly find themselves desiring romance, a boyfriend, sex, and all that other good stuff, but they’re still children and, therefore, are intimidated by the thought of dating a real man. As a result a large number of them have created a corporate image of the sort of boyfriend they think they’d like to have. Because they don’t know how to related to men, and they don’t yet realize that they will one day need and value the distinctly masculine traits a real man would be able to offer them, their image of the perfect boyfriend ends up being little more than a girl with a penis. “He” enjoys feminine things like shopping for clothes, taking bubble baths, and getting his nails done. He’s delicate and gentle to the point of fecklessness. And he’s always, always incredibly beautiful in a purely androgynous sort of way. Nary a hair mars his slender, soft-skinned frame. His lips are full and supple and tinted just the right shade of rose. His eyes are intense and brooding, and he’s capable of giving the most sultry of come-hither looks.
Good Lord! That is the single most unappealing thing I could ever think of. The only thing more disturbing than the twisted and abnormal fantasies of these giggly fluff-heads is the fact that grown men are actually trying to live down to said fantasies. Only the most freakish and perverted men would ever want to have sex with a 13 year old. Normal men realize that a girl has to be at least 15. So, what, I am forced to asked, is the deal?
I’ll tell you what the deal is. Anne Rice decided to grace the world with her abysmally bad books about moody, tortured, and over-sexed vampires. Shortly thereafter, marketing mucketymucks realized there was a lot of money to be made from the adolescent-minded female readership devouring Rice’s drivel. Those marketing blood-suckers went off to their Hollywood whores and said, “You can win the devotion and adoration of millions of young girls the world over if you simply castrate yourselves.”
“Did you bring a razor?” came the quick reply.
And that is why we are now forced to endure the likes of Brad Pitt, Tom Cruise, and Orlando Bloom. [As an aside, that is also why the high-voiced specter of David Beckham is rearing its sculpted head from across the Pond. I can only hope and pray that a country which barely survived the invasion of Victoria Adams and the rest of the Spice Girls will not chose to willingly embrace Mr. Posh.]
Look at this picture.
Am I the only woman who sees this image and burst into a fit of hysterical laughter? I swear, it gets funnier every time I look at it. Everything from the poofy sleeves to the oddly vivid eyes to the frizzy hair extensions is so over-the-top that, try though I may, I can do nothing save laugh. Maybe I’m laughing to keep from crying.
Is this what manhood has been reduced to? I can only imagine how intolerable marriage to him would be.
“Hey, Honey,” I’d say, “I’m gonna make steak tonight. Go rope me a steer.”
But would he do it? Of course not! He might go out, sink his teeth into its juicy jugular, and suck it dry in a particularly lascivious fashion, but actually rasslin’ me up some cattle would sully his perfectly pressed clothes and cause him to get dirt under his recently manicured fingernails. These kind of guys might make good eye-candy, but when it comes to doing anything worth-while (such as mowing the lawn or taking out the trash) they’re hopeless.
On the other hand, a man like Humphrey Bogart, who’s routinely out-witting Nazis, battling Mexican bandits, and getting shot at by criminals of all variety, would probably welcome the relative tedium of fixing a broken back-yard fence. Bogie may have had his faults, but I’ll say this much for him: he was no sissy girly-boy, he was a damn fine kisser, and he didn’t have to take his shirt off to make people realize how hot he was.
Yes, the lack of clothing...you didn’t think I’d get to that did you. Well, I have.
It amazes me that there are grown men who actually think that shaving off every last strand of body hair then going around and flashing their greased up pectorals at every girl who happens to pass by is going to make them more desirable. Any man who does this obviously hasn’t been particularly gifted in the grey cells department because, as any normal man will tell you, if you go around flashing your greased up pectorals to any and all you’re a mere half-step away from shooting a photospread for a gay body-building magazine.
Don’t say I didn’t warn you.
Beyond that, why on earth would a guy think that I’d like to stare at his six pack all day every day year in and year out? Is he trying to win my heart by showing that if my washing machine ever goes on the fritz I can use his gut as a back-up wash board? Or is he simply trying to let me know in his own incomparable way that he’s never going to eat all the tasty, calorie-filled, home-cooked meals I thought that I’d get to make for my husband and that, as a result, all the time I spent learning how to cook was in vain?
I’m gonna let you all in on a not-so-secret secret. A man who has a perfect, sculpted body is either (a) on steroids or (b) too self-absorbed to give his woman the attention she needs and deserves.
Basically, what I’m trying to tell you is that Al Gore is the perfect man.
What I am trying to say is that metrosexuals might look hot in an ugly sort of way, but they’re too self-absorbed to have a personality that is even half-way interesting. And, in a couple years the whole I’m-Straight-But-I-Look-Gay thing will be out, but by then you’ll have been knocked up by Mr. Languid-and-Narcissistic...twice...and you’ll be forced to deal with him for the rest of your life. It won’t be a pretty thing.
So, repeated after me: “Just say no to metrosexuality!”
Say it. Learn it. Live it.