For anyone who has ever read this column, the following statement will come as no surprise.
For anyone who doesn’t know me, let me say this as a means of introduction: I am not a manly man[1].
I am not particularly strong or tough or resolute. My beard fills in like a patchy lawn, and I am woefully inept with tools and home improvement projects. I know nothing about cars[2].
But, still, there were times when I wanted to muster some masculine pride, a modicum of machismo.
As I’ve aged and watched myself transform into a “tattered coat upon a stick[3],” there were, indeed, times when I’d stand in front of the bedroom mirror and try to summon some semblance of virility.
I wasn’t completely neutered. Until recently.
Enter Rocco, the kitten my son brought home from work[4]. Kittens, of course, are a far cry from a “man’s” best friend, and many males view those adorable balls of fur as somewhat effete.
But Rocco alone did not possess the power to completely emasculate me, nor did owning a pug named Buster.
However, when Rocco and Buster became best friends under my roof and turned the house into a set from “The Adventures of Milo and Otis,” it was time to turn in my Man Card.
Now, as I stare down the barrel of 47 years old[5], as the kitten leaps onto the pug’s back and they both adorably wrestle, my Man Card has been officially revoked.
While I tried to maintain the last vestiges of my manhood, alas, I failed.
First, I tried by retreating to my Man Cave with a twelve-pack of Bud Light and watching hours of straight sports—basketball and hockey, professional and college—placing careless bets through a bookie and cursing at top volume while punching pillows[6].
Then the kitten and the pug made their way downstairs and began adorably wrestling.
Fail.
Next I tried camping on the living room couch with a plate of extra-spicy Buffalo wings, more Bud Light and a bottle of Frank’s Red Hot, settling down to watch a Rambo-marathon and tying a red bandanna around my head.
Then the kitten and the pug jumped onto the couch and began adorably wrestling.
Another fail.
While I still refuse to use the baby-voice my wife uses, the one that raises an octave when speaking to the new best friends[7], I’ve succumbed to their cuteness, surrendered my Man Card and bid sayonara to brawn.
The truth is that I’m not a manly man, and what a relief.
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[1] That might fall under the umbrella of “understatement.”
[2] Or any type of engine-powered machinery.
[3] That’s yet another Yeats quote in one of my columns; hence, another reason I fail meet the mark of “manly man”: I’m a poet and I read poetry.
[4] Where exactly he got said kitten is still befuddling us.
[5] My birthday is March 28. Presents and cards can be sent to me c/o Manchester Ink Link, 1087 Elm Street, #303, Manchester, NH 03104.
[6] I realize it would’ve been manlier to punch holes in the drywall, but I didn’t want to hurt my hand and my name isn’t Kyle.
[7] She also employs first-person plural pronouns to include the pug, the kitten and herself, along with consecutive rhetorical questions, i.e. “Why are we so sad? Is Nate being mean to us?”