with gay people or their lifestyle, I find absolutely nothing physically
attractive about it. (Although, I must admit that I truly admire the
commitment and the respect that gay friends of mine have in their
relationships with each other.)
However, if you overlook the physical attraction that I feel towards women and the lack of that feeling that I have towards men…
I could be gay.
Or, at least, I could be a woman trapped in a man’s body.
Now, again, whatever the hell you do, DON’T GET ME WRONG ON THIS!!! We’re not talking sexual preferences here, okay? We’re talking…well…
feelings.
All right?
All my life, I’ve known that I’m heterosexual. And yet, to be
perfectly honest with you, I have always felt…well…less than adequate in
the masculinity department when I compare myself to the socially
accepted image of what a MAN is supposed to be.
I don’t get turned on by power tools. Most of the time, when I use
tools, I end up hurting myself. I’ve a drilled hole through my
thumbnail, sliced through the fucking power cord of the electric hedge
trimmers, fallen off of ladders, damn near amputated my lower left leg
with a chainsaw, hit myself in the head with a hammer (looooong story.), and almost electrocuted myself and seriously frizzed out my
hair with the assistance of a live power outlet and a screwdriver.
I don’t know squat about motors (electric or gas-driven), don’t like football, don’t like movies like Beerfest, enjoy
singing show tunes to myself in the car or the shower, and have only
been to one strip club in my life, (and ended up getting grossed out and
depressed by the experience.)
I cry a lot.
I cry when I’m sad. I cry when I’m happy.
I cry over mushy birthday cards, both when I receive them and when I
shop for them. (When I shop for my wife’s birthday card, I read a whole
slew of them, and then I pick out the one that puts a lump in my throat.
Seriously! Hallmark schlep chokes me up sometimes! ESPECIALLY the ones
that are about forty lines long and printed in script that looks like
handwriting and are signed at the bottom by the “poet” who wrote them!)
I cry at movies. (Give me a good chick flick, and stand back! The Notebook, Terms of Endearment, and Beaches all did me in. E.T left me sobbing uncontrollably again last night, and I’ve seen the thing about a dozen times! ) Hell, I’ve got a great friend of mine who tells everybody, “Jim cries at hockey games.”
Yeah? Well…
SO FUCKING WHAT?
I love gardening.
I love raising orchids.
I love meditating.
I love bird watching. (I’ve got ten bird feeders in the yard, and I am absolutely thrilled when I see my first hummingbird of the season or the first time I
notice the goldfinches have actually turned gold for the season.
I say things like “absolutely thrilled!” a lot.
I like to read novels like The Time Traveler’s Wife and The Poisonwood Bible. (However, in my defense, I have NEVER read a romance novel in my life!)
I’m not much to look at. I’m fairly short (somewhere between 5′ 9”
and 5’10”). No bulging biceps or prominent pecs. Lined face. Snow-white,
receding hair, aaaaand I’m bow-legged. Not exactly the picture of a testosterone- laden human being.
I’m a soft touch when it comes to giving away things like money. I’m a
sucker for a good sob story. I can’t stand other people being sad or
unhappy, and I would give away everything I own in order to get somebody
to JUST STOP THE DAMNED CRYING!
Ever notice how the young, virile men on TV and the movies these days never freaking shave? I mean, they don’t have a beard,
per se, but they have a heavy stubble that, supposedly, makes them look
sexy and masculine.(Don’t believe me? Just go and watch an episode of
the terrible new Hawaii 5-0 sometime. I don’t think there’s a single razor or can of shaving cream on the whole damned island chain!)
I tried not shaving to make myself look more masculine once. You know
what happened? I ended up looking like a senile old man who forgot to
shave that morning…
that’s what.
Because of my lack of interest in, shall we say, manly topics of conversation, I often find myself bored to tears at social
gatherings that are segregated by the sexes. At events like these, I
feel like a man without a country.
Most of the time at such parties, I begin by sitting
with the men simply because I don’t want to be thought of as odd.
However, sooner or later the conversation in the masculine room almost
always drifts to what they do for a living, or manly things like hunting or mechanics, or lifting really, really heavy
things, or sports. (Sports I can sort of get into, as long as the topic
is University of Connecticut Women’s Basketball or The Boston Red Sox,
but that’s it.)
In order to stop my eyes from glazing over, I usually leave that room
and go into the room where all the women are gathered, but
conversations about shopping and make-up and what colors go with what
colors and sun-dried tomatoes and children and home decorating have even
less appeal to me than the testosterone-laden ones in the other room.
So, in situations such as these, I often find myself sitting in a
room devoid of other human beings playing with the dog, all the while
wishing that I were sitting behind a Certified Gold Lager at The Main
Street Cafe with my wife and my . . . theater friends.
…
Makes you kind of wonder, huh?