Manless-ness

I may technically be a man, but I’ve had some shady dealings with some effeminate things lately.  Fir-scented candles being one.  Actually, it’s perfectly acceptable for a man to enjoy a fir-scented candle.  What isn’t acceptable is harassing the owner of the local boutique shop who gets them in every fall, by inundating her with daily emails asking if they’ve arrived. 

“It’s July,” came the responses.  “They’ll be here in October, when people actually want the smell of fir trees.”  If you’re reading this piece, Ethel, I would like to apologize for my actions.

I’m not sure what’s happening to me.  These days, I find myself looking forward to cozying up on a cold winter’s eve with a good book, a soft blanket, and a glass of Cabernet.  Back in the day, I would laugh at any man needing a blanket (sorry if I offended you, Grandpa).  Wine was for girls and people from France.  Books?  I’ll wait for the movie to come out, thank you very much.

Last week, though, something happened that was so beneath my manlier qualities that it’s hard for me to comprehend.  I noticed a few blackheads on my nose and decided to purchase some Biore nasal strips.  The box they come in has a pink line through the middle of it, which was their not-so-subtle way of saying, “This product is for girls.”  Honestly, men can’t use these miraculous nose-clearing strips?  The number of blackheads I laid waste to is beyond the point here, though it was a massive number.  My family wasn’t interested in visual confirmation of just how many of those lunatics I vanquished.  No number of blackheads I removed can replace the amount of regret in my heart right now.

It’s been nearly impossible to do the manly things in my life that I once enjoyed.  The other day, I tried suppressing the urge to watch HGTV with my wife by forcing myself to watch the Baltimore Ravens take on the Miami Dolphins.  It was the grossest misuse of my time.  Learning to knit would’ve been a more productive venture.  Seriously.  Anyone giving knitting classes?

My wife takes our son to get haircuts at a place that isn’t a barber shop, and it doesn’t bother me.

I even considered getting a pedicure, but only for two seconds before whatever testosterone I had left decided to rebel, quelling that crazy idea.

No one has to remind me to grab a coat and a hat when I leave for work on a cold morning.  In years past, I could walk outside in sub-freezing temperatures, shirtless, and not bat an eyelash.  I just used “eyelash” in a piece – yet another sign that something is terribly wrong.

Lately, my wife has noticed me checking myself out in the mirror.  At first she thought I was being silly, but she suddenly realized I wasn’t joking when I asked her for an honest assessment about my stomach.

I take pride in folding laundry.  I always folded laundry, but I never really cared how well.

Also, I really, really like taking walks.  When I was younger and someone asked me if I wanted to take a walk, I would always ask them if their car had broken down.  Walking to go nowhere seemed stupid.  Now, walking is excellent.

So far, I have no interest in Pinterest, but still, I’m doomed.