I’ve been undergoing a rapid, regressive transformation of my masculinity.
I was once virile, my Ahnold-like musculature throbbing with testosterone, my hands able to wrench century old trees from the ground; my face razor raw from the daily deforestation of the bristly Maine wilderness that grew nightly…
Then, I became smug, even blatantly toxic, like some entitled college star quarterback who, when not gripping a football, was squeezing every sensual part of the female anatomy that passed by…
My wife, of course, was unamused by this phase.
This soon led to the mentality of a teenage boy, this hormone raging character from a 1980s gross-out movie whose loins yearned for every short summer dress and a locker-room peep hole glimpse of the popular blonde in her white bikini…
Now, as I type this, I am some emasculated Soy Boy, this squishy, malleable, subservient prototype of New World Order Manliness and Millennialist Feministas.
This week, I confess, I and another man, took a walk.
In my previous alterations, such an engagement would be mocked, and depending on my clique of Bro-dom, specifically those of the Vineyard Vine’s popped-collar pink polo’s, I would eventually be shamed and excommunicated for being homo.
But, now, I simply enjoyed the presence of another man as we strolled toward a park bench to sit and stare out into the ocean.
Once comfortable, The Man sighed. Soon, his lips trembled as he disgorged months of emotional pain.
And, I empathized with another man.
As The Man sniffled, I patted his shoulder.
“We can do this,” I exhaled, leaning in to his battered soul. “If she persisted, so can you.”
Later that evening, with my wife’s permission, I and The Man enjoyed an evening at the newly opened wine bar.
Before, I forget: Angelo, you’re a magnificent sommelier.
If my wife and I weren’t happily childless, I would have one of those adorable baby carrier’s strapped to my chest as I wandered the avenue’s of the Thursday morning farmer’s market. Instead, my wife and I are blessed with two remarkable rescue dogs whose ebullient tail wagging, and gritty tongues never fail to thank our local famers for their yummy organic veggies and berries. Oh, how our rescues Kerry and Prince love their tummies wuvved by those strong, entrepreneurial ladies at the Pink Puppies Artisan Treats stand! Heck, even this pet parent appreciates those gluten free delicacies!
Because of my wife’s superb academic achievements—those which surpassed my own measly Bachelor’s degree—she has recently been promoted to a remarkable leadership position. The accompanying seven figure salary has afforded me the opportunity to leave my own career and embark on a long delayed passion journey as an activist blogger and YouTuber.
Yes, I admit, there are days when I feel overwhelmed by the collective outrage of our movement, scurrying for the words to incite resistance, but, I remember what my wife must be going through as she smashes innumerable glass ceilings!
But, for now, I must go. I’m to meet my wife and her boyfriend at the local micro brewery for our weekly corn hole tournament!