In reviewing the comments I received for last week’s journal entry, I realize that I made one grave and glaring error in judgment. I forgot that not a single member of my readership is based in the glorious City of Angels. In fact, most of you could probably go off to Podunk, North Dakota and be right at home.
Hah hah. Just kidding.
But, the truth of the matter is, we here in LA are surrounded by metrosexuals day in day out week after week year after interminable year, but y’all in Wisconsin and Texas and the like are surrounded by normal people (they’re normally overweight people, but they’re still normal). As a result, the denizens of LA have an understanding of what metrosexuality entails that is not possessed by those who live outside the land of short, undernourished, perpetually tanned, shiny-skinned freaks and Ryan Seacrest.
Having completed, as I did, one whole year of college I put great stock in education, and I feel I would be remiss in my duties if I allowed people to remain in the darkened cell of ignorance whilst I possessed the key that could free them and allow them to escape into the grassy fields where they could frolic beneath the warm and shining Sun of Knowledge.
To that end, I believe that a further explanation of what exactly metrosexuality consists of is in order.
The term “metrosexuality” is a recent invention but metrosexuals have existed since nearly the beginning of mankind. In the past, however, they were always referred to by derisive words that included “fop”, “dandy”, “macaroni”, and “lounge lizard”, and, even though metrosexuality is currently the in thing, it’s just as lame now as it was back when Percy Blakeney had to endure the ignominy of being thought a limp-wristed epicene during the times he wasn’t smuggling nobles out of Revolutionary France where the citizens were guillotining Louis number 16 for wearing a bad wig and a fake mole.
There are, of course, subsets of metrosexuals (one of which is the Vampire Chic I, as a person involved in the fantasy sub-culture, am forced to endure on a regular basis) each of which has their own nuances, but all of which share certain aspects, foremost among which are (1) an obsession with clothing and personal appearance bordering on a mania, (2) an effete desire to be pampered with massages, manicures, bubble-baths, etc..., and (3) a feckless inability to do anything stereotypically manly such as shooting things, mowing the lawn, and breaking bricks with their bare foreheads. [As an aside, it’s no coincidence that 99% of actors (to make up a statistic) are against killing people who want to ruthlessly slaughter innocent citizens of the United States. Gritty sand and harsh desert climes don’t mix well with skin peels.]
All of that, however, doesn’t mean that metrosexuals are the only men who know how to bathe or comb their hair. And I’m sure Arnold Schwarzenegger, Humphrey Bogart, and Matt Drudge aren’t the only non-femmy men who have been able to reach into the depths of their closets and pull out clothes that actually look good.
Of course, metrosexuals are probably more consistent in their fashion choices, but I’m sure non-metrosexuals can achieve a style-success rate of at least fifty-percent...or forty-percent.
It is also not a femmy trait to treat girls and women nicely. Granted, most men aren’t very good at being gallant around the ladies but that has more to do with the fact that feminists have systematically tried to make men feel like garbage if they don’t treat women exactly like they would treat men.
When it comes down to it, however, you’ll be less likely to find a metrosexual who knows how to treat women well and make them feel feminine and sexy because he’s generally too absorbed in the wave of his hair and the shade of his tan. I can’t speak for all women but I bet that when faced with a choice between Ryan Seacrest and Hugh Jackman’s character in Kate and Leopold most women would choose Leopold. Leo knew how to dress well and bathe but he was no dandy and he knew how to treat women. Ryan Seacrest, on the other hand, is a short, scrawny, self-absorbed metrosexual who seems more concerned with recapturing the glory days of his early-twenties--which is probably why he can’t get a girlfriend and most people think he’s gay.
So, to recap…
Here ends the public service portion of the Jessica Journals. I hope you found it informative and are now able to frolic in the grassy fields.