Monday, May 12, 2008
Ask the man whose blog this blog used to battle, and he will tell you that I am not the manliest of men. At least not in the traditional sense. Lately, I have found myself unable to keep pace when it comes to doing things like snorting cocaine, tipping at strip clubs and drinking rubbing alcohol. I have opted instead for softer approaches to showcases on manliness.
One of the approaches was prominently featured on this blog when I discussed my love of Man-icures. However, I have slowly but surely come to realize that many of the things that I deem to be an affirmation of my manliness are merely blatant examples of my deeply rooted metrosexuality.
Now don't get me wrong, I'm not walking around in pink ties and pink shirts (but I would if I felt that such attire would be appropriate for the workplace). Nor am I openly advocating for men to start getting pedicures (although they do have a private room for pedicures at the place that handled my manicure). I'm merely laying all of my cards on the table and coming to grip with the fact that I'm not into a lot of manly shit that men have been known to do. I don't drink scotch. I don't like strip clubs. I don't even like to be around a lot of men at the same time. Too much testosterone actually gives me a headache.
So when the time came for me to start smoking cigars, I proceeded with caution. After beginning with a Cuban and then working my way down to mere mortal cigars that aren't rolled by Cubans using Cuban tobacco in Cuba, I was understandably a bit hesitant. In order to relay the type of feeling that I hoped to derive from the smoking session, I asked my buddies to "get me the girliest cigar they carry." Meaning, get me a mild cigar that doesn't look like a frickin' Virginia Slim.
It's a little weird. I don't even like smoke. But I've accepted the cigar and just another occupational hazard...like golf. And this is coming from the guy who almost lost sight in his right eye thanks to a friendly game of tennis. But I digress...
Smoking cigars makes you look like a bad ass. But they also make you smell like bad ass, for lack of a better term. So it's a bit of a Catch 22. I'm damned if I do and damned if I don't. But by smoking the cigar, I feel that I have chosen the path of least resistance. No one can say that I am not manly enough to sit in a room filled with smoke while talking about politics, career options, women and tobacco. I have proven that I am a man by virtue of doing those things that men have been known to do. To add icing to the cake, I also ate some bloody steak tonight and had a rootbeer float made with real beer (I'm pounding my chest while writing this).
So to reward myself for being big, mean and burly - I now plan on taking a nice bubble bath and sipping on a glass of fine wine. And of course, my Kenny G cd will be playing in the background while I get all of this dirt from under my nails.