COLUMN:I'm glad to be a man
What'd I Say?
By: Andy Morgan
Issue date: 10/15/01 Section: Opinion
I love women. Always have. Always will.
That’s not a comment laced with gigolo undertones, and I’m not the type who cavorts around Logan in a smoking jacket/silk bathrobe, wearing a Hugh Hefner-esque grin, puffing on a pipe, whilst surrounded by throngs of silicone-enhanced blonde airshells.
Rather, my aforementioned statement is simply this: The presence of women on this planet is a God-send of peace and stability. Without them, men would be clubbing each other with steaks and remote controls, filling outdoor pools with beer and be 600-pound globs of hollow, insignificant brain matter, mumbling football terms and drooling over re-runs of The A-Team and Gilligan’s Island. Furthermore, I am entirely supportive of a woman’s right to choose, equality in the workforce and anything else that brings the female populace up to par, if not past, their male counterparts.
With that said, let me affirm, I am so happy to be a man.
This dawned on me the other day while getting dressed for work. I was slipping my belt through the last loop in my jeans when I heard a guttural, from-the-depths-of-hell snarl reverberating from the bathroom. I thought perhaps the devil had erupted from the toilet; however, it was only my wife, lamenting and sighing over the complexities of fixing her hair.
“What’s the problem,” I said.
Her head actually did a full 360-degree turn when I uttered those words and she proceeded to emit another unintelligible mix of swear words and gurgling sighs from the bowels of a place, I’m beginning to believe, only exists in women.
“My hair won’t fix,” she said, and shut the door, as though my questioning gaze might affect the process of picking, brushing, curling and then spraying of her hair, with two and one-half gallons of hairspray, I might add.
As a man, I’m glad seven seconds of water, a quarter-sized drop of hair gel and two or three strokes of my fingers can mold my hair into an acceptable societal norm. I can’t imagine spending one-half hour coifing my hair. That in and of itself is reason for thousands of women to lament the fact they are not a man.
That’s not a comment laced with gigolo undertones, and I’m not the type who cavorts around Logan in a smoking jacket/silk bathrobe, wearing a Hugh Hefner-esque grin, puffing on a pipe, whilst surrounded by throngs of silicone-enhanced blonde airshells.
Rather, my aforementioned statement is simply this: The presence of women on this planet is a God-send of peace and stability. Without them, men would be clubbing each other with steaks and remote controls, filling outdoor pools with beer and be 600-pound globs of hollow, insignificant brain matter, mumbling football terms and drooling over re-runs of The A-Team and Gilligan’s Island. Furthermore, I am entirely supportive of a woman’s right to choose, equality in the workforce and anything else that brings the female populace up to par, if not past, their male counterparts.
With that said, let me affirm, I am so happy to be a man.
This dawned on me the other day while getting dressed for work. I was slipping my belt through the last loop in my jeans when I heard a guttural, from-the-depths-of-hell snarl reverberating from the bathroom. I thought perhaps the devil had erupted from the toilet; however, it was only my wife, lamenting and sighing over the complexities of fixing her hair.
“What’s the problem,” I said.
Her head actually did a full 360-degree turn when I uttered those words and she proceeded to emit another unintelligible mix of swear words and gurgling sighs from the bowels of a place, I’m beginning to believe, only exists in women.
“My hair won’t fix,” she said, and shut the door, as though my questioning gaze might affect the process of picking, brushing, curling and then spraying of her hair, with two and one-half gallons of hairspray, I might add.
As a man, I’m glad seven seconds of water, a quarter-sized drop of hair gel and two or three strokes of my fingers can mold my hair into an acceptable societal norm. I can’t imagine spending one-half hour coifing my hair. That in and of itself is reason for thousands of women to lament the fact they are not a man.
