Sunday, October 11, 2015


            I have heard on the news and even read some about the so called wussification of the American male. Some people have even given a name to this “new” guy. He’s not a new type of person in the physical sense, rather a person who, well…behaves different from you and me.  Some advertising executive in New York have labeled them as “Metrosexuals” or “Metros” for short.  I’m not talking about guys involved in some sort of kinky behavior; rather, these are guys, who according to the one article I read, are young urban fellas who like driving a fancy high priced sports car rather than a good truck.  Who, instead of spending Saturday morning afield or on the water, would rather be at some spa getting a massage, manicure or, even worse, getting various parts of their body waxed, don’t even ask, I didn’t.  Worse they actually like to go shopping for fancy clothing and shoes.  Now, for the most part, I only shop at a two local stores, Bass Pro Shops and Home Depot.  I figure if those stores don’t carry it, it isn’t worth buying.  That’s not to say I don’t go shopping elsewhere ‘cause every once in a while my wife does drag me off to the local mall where I wouldn’t be a bit surprised if one day they had an employee standing at the entrance shouting “dead man walking” because of the way I shuffle in.
            Even though I don’t tell her enough, I am proud of my wife.  She is a CPA, but she wasn’t when we got married.  She loves numbers, yet is married to a guy who has to use his fingers and toes when adding any number larger than two.  A few years after we were married, she went back to school and got her college degrees and then her CPA.  Which was quite a feat considering that all the while she had to put up with my shenanigans.  Now, I do have to admit being married to a CPA has its advantages.  She can clean up the mess I make out of the checkbook each month in no time flat and, since she started doing the taxes, our relationship with the IRS has improved greatly, but that’s another story.
            A while back I had the “pleasure” of attending a party at the home of one of my wife’s fellow accountants.  It’s one of those big fancy homes.  The kind we don’t have.  See, there two reason’s we don’t have a bigger home, and according to my wife are both my fault.  One is because of all the money I spend on hunting, fishing and camping gear and trips.  The other is my so-called lack of income from all the time I take off to go hunting, fishing and camping.  Recently, back in the swamps I hunt, I had found what appeared to be the home range of a huge boar hog that was in real need of spending some serious time on my grill. After spending the morning chasing that hog around the swamps, I got home and cleaned up just in time to go to the “party.”   It was there where I met some of those “metro” guys in person.
            Soon after arriving at the party, my wife told me to mingle while she caught up with her accountant friend, and I was left to my devices.  This meant I was off in search of a cold one, which I found in this huge kitchen, where several guys were standing around conversing and mixing some fancy drink that I couldn’t even pronounce.  As I walked in, one of the guys was talking about some new cologne he had recently purchased and how perfect it was for the early fall season.  After a brief introduction, the conversation returned to his cologne and the need to match it to the season.  As I stood listening, one of the guys asked my opinion on matching your cologne to the seasons.  I completely mis-understood their question and meaning of cologne. Thinking they were talking about some sort of deer scent. Since we live in Florida where the local rut doesn’t start until almost Christmas, and it was still early fall, I explained to the young man, this time of the year I prefer plain-old non-estrus doe urine.  Now, I could have sworn, when I finished, somewhere off in the distance someone shouted “strike one.”
            Another one of the guys quickly changed the subject and started talking about shoes.  He said he had just bought a pair of Gucci something-or-other, very expensive, leather shoes.  Then noticing my boots I was wearing, he asked about them.  I told him mine were indeed real leather as well - hiking/hunting boots with a Gore-Tex lining.  They seem impressed, until somewhere in the conversation, we discovered he was wearing shoes you never want to get wet, whereas I was wearing boots that you purposely wore while walking through mud and water in the swamps chasing or being chased by various critters, “strike two.”
            Again the conversation was changed, as still another one of the guys spoke of spending his morning at some new exclusive spa that we just had to visit.  He talked about the incredible massage he had gotten, in fact, he felt so good after the massage he got his eyebrows done.  What he had done to them, I don’t know and I didn’t ask.  In turn, the other guys talked about their morning, shopping trips for silk shirts in “passion” which was all the rage and haircuts by Monique at “that” salon.  I was actually beginning to fit in a little, and we were starting to get along, mainly because I had kept my mouth shut and just listened.  That didn’t last long because just as the first rounds of drinks were completed and we were all smiles, someone made the mistake of asking me what I did that morning.  I wish I could adequately describe the looks I got from those guys as I recalled spending the morning in the woods on the east side of Old Yankee Swamp, searching for this huge boar I had seen, “strike three.”
            I wondered off to this room with a really nice couch and one of those big screen TVs.  I remembered Alabama was playing Georgia and spend the rest of the evening, by myself, watching the game.  As we left, my wife commented about what a nice party it was, and how much fun she had.  When she asked I told her I had a good time too.  “Really?” she asked, “Yep, it was a hellva game.”

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