I’d Do Anything for the Year of Manliness (But I Won’t Do that.)

Seasons of Love

Seasons of Love (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

There’s a bunch of small things worth noting on my journey into the year of manliness.  I hope you’ll bare with me reader, if this feels like a letter, bopping about from subject to subject, than a single cohesive blog post.

I’m, is the phrase “bopping about” one that goes along with the idea of the year of manliness?  Have to ponder that one.

Anyway, let’s start with a couple admissions about who I am and where I am coming from.

First off, as I am writing this, I am listening to a play list of my own creation.  It is called “Overwrought Cheese Fest.”  This first song is Meatloaf’s “I’d Do Anything For Love (But I Won’t Do that).”  Ordinarily, when a person brings up this song, they are supposed to wonder just what it is that Meatloaf won’t do.   What action is so perverse, bizarre, and unmentionable that it just sketched out?  Also, whenever the song is mentioned, your supposed to scoff at the contradiction in the title.

Scoff.  That’s much more manly than bopping about.

But I don’t know that power ballads are really manly.  Just wanted to be transparent.  By the way, the Overwrought Cheese Fest” Play list has now moved on.  I am listening to “Seasons of Love” from Rent.

Not pretty, I know.  But I felt like I should start with a bit of transparency.

And just a little more transparency, as long as we are on the subject.

A couple of posts ago I listed many of my less-than-many qualities and experiences.  A friend who has been with me through the long haul reminded me that I’d left something off the list.

Belly Dancing Lessons.

Yup, I took belly dancing lessons.

I am sure I looked ridiculous.  Despite the fact that this is the year of manliness, I feel it necessary to point out that this was fun.  And I do have a little redemption.  It’s a little like the one male cheer leader: Is he really the most womanly person on the field?  I mean the manly men are all rolling around with each other in the mud.  Him?  He’s got his hands all over the girls.

For the record, I didn’t have my hands all over the girls.  And they weren’t stereotypical blonde bombshells.

But I was the only guy.  And there were some pretty beautiful women, generally exotically beautiful, sophisticated women.  I got to move around with them.  It was… fun.

Manly?  I don’t know.  Let me know if you think it was.

Anyway.  A couple more current notes on the year of manliness:

I confidently unlocked my minivan.  I slid my hand confidently across the underside of the plastic part where the steering wheel is.  (Macho note to myself: there’s probably a macho name for the plastic front part.)  I pulled the little cord thing.  (At least I didn’t call it a thingee.)

The hood popped right open.  I can’t say it was a satisfying clunk.  But it was a happy little pop.

It took me only a moment to find the little slidey thing that allowed me to open the hood.  And I propped it right up.  O.K., in honesty, there is a little arrow that tells you where to prop it up.  But I found it right away.

At my feet there were not one, but count them,  2 different fluids I was going to put into the engine.

I looked at the mysterious collection of alien shapes, tubes, wires, blocks, and openings.  Right away I knew exactly where to put the antifreeze and the wiper fluid.  Not a moments hesitation.

At first.

But then I wondered what would happen if I accidentally put the antifreeze in the wiper fluid place.  My gut feeling said this would be less disastorous than putting the windshield wiper fluid where the anti freeze goes.

So I guess I think I deserve some sort of manhood points for the air of self confidence with which I approached the engine.

But to be honest, some ought to be deducted.  Because I stood there with the bottles– which by the way, are about the same size and shape– and quite obsessively, checked, rechecked, and re-rechecked to make sure I had the right fluid to go in the right place.

But hey, the car has not yet blown up.  I am therefore reasonably sure I did, after all, put them both in the spot they were supposed to go.

Last update for today:

I have been trying to walk around with an extra-straight back and my head held high.  My years of mediocre posture constantly weasle thier way back in.   But I am slowly getting better.

I thought that people might notice me and treat me differently.

Uhm yeah.  So far?  Not much.

But it feels different on the inside.  Whenever I put my shoulders back, and keep my head held high, I feel ready to do things like confidently approach a car engine.  Kind-of shocking, really.

I have gone after this big promotion at work.  It’s not that I thought, “It’s the year of manliness, I should chase down that promotion as if it were a baby deer bleeding through the wounds I inflicted on it!”

Rather, I think, these times of walking around like I belong, like I have a right to take up the space I occupy, they lead to this little thought: hey, I could do that.  I have nothing to gain by trying.  If I got the job, I think I would be good at it.

 

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