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February 11, 2004 |
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Shocked. Stumped. Embarrassed. While wandering through another day in my normal absent-minded manner I stumbled into the Horizon Drive Safeway Starbucks in search of a vanilla latte fix. Sitting at a table nearby were three long-time friends, females all, conversing their way through an afternoon cup. After the usual generalities, “How are you?” “Where do the girls live now?” and “How many grandchildren do you and Jan have?” out of left field came the question, “So, tell me Dick Maynard are you metro-sexual?” “Well I don’t think so,” I mumbled “I’ve been married almost forty years, have three daughters, went to Iowa State and am a part-time Methodist.” “That has nothing to do with being a metro-sexual” my friend responded, “but I was thinking if anybody in our age group in Grand Junction was metro-sexual it would have to be Dick Maynard.” And dumb me, I didn’t know whether to be complimented or insulted. My latte was ready so good-byes were mumbled and I headed for the door. Driving home, between sips and traffic circles, I pondered what exactly was a metro-sexual. This was not a subject I remember coming up during a round of golf and quite honestly the term metro-sexual sounded like carrying on an illicit, immoral and un-natural relationship with a District of Columbia subway car. In the sanctity of home it was Google to the rescue. It turns out in this “Queer Eye For the Straight Guy” age metro-sexual defines a hetro male not afraid of being in touch with his feminine side. But, the article explained, all that being in touch requires more than just being married with daughters and grandchildren. Being metro-sexual, the thinking goes, begins with hair. Barbers are not a part of the metro-sexual movement unless the man in question is desires the Marine recruit look. Salons are in. With my ever-follicley challenged forehead the Maynard hairstyle is limited to a choice between buzz or comb-over. And thank goodness for the blessing of baldness. At my age it would be hard indeed to wander through life as a boy-band blonde. But, I now know, with the metro-sexual male, hair tinting is where it’s at. There was one metro-sexual area where it momentarily appeared I was in synch with the norm. Pants. The metro-sexual rule of style requires flat front pants. No pleats. The three months of the year when shorts aren’t my uniform of the day, I wear flat front pants. Supposedly the no pleat style gives the metro-sexual male a slimmer appearance and heaven knows slimmer has been missing from my physique since the discovery of chicken fried steak. But Jan ruined the reverie of my being a really stylish flat front guy explaining blue jeans aren’t what the metro-sexual style mavens had in mind. Bummer dude. Further into the metro-sexual style manual I was mortified to learn real men wear real shoes and the stylish American male was supposed to have given up his sneakers at age twelve. Well excuse me! I checked my half of the closet and found 8 pair of shoes. One pair brown, one pair black (for funerals, bank board meetings and other somber occasions like service club speeches) two mis-matched Birkenstocks and five pair of Saucony, Nike and New Balance running shoes. But the nadir of metro-sexuality is the requirement for red-blooded PBR drinking American males to have their nails manicured. Real men, I was informed, don’t clip their fingernails but have them professionally done. Here I thought maturity was forever mine since I quit biting my nails at age 56. The article continued with other rules for metro-sexuality yours truly chooses to ignore. There’s no way in hell I’m giving up logo t-shirts, particularly my favorite with “Bubba” on the front, and don’t even consider the possibility of a daily moisture massage. Sorry Neutrogena soap and Nivea moisturizer with alpha hydroxy but I’m sticking with Cornhuskers lotion. What’s next? Giving up George Jones cassettes for Justin Timberlake? And talking to your golf buddies about chiffon. Sorry world, but latte’s are about as metro-sexual as this guy gets.
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