Sensitive New Age Guy

Dear Sensitive New Age Guy, standing in front of me in line at Giant Eagle,

Let’s get something clear between us. You and I are never going to be friends. I look at the items you’ve selected: arugula, acorn squash, some kind of crafted beer, Green & Simple counter spray, and a container of almond milk, and I know one thing: I make a better guy than you do. And I don’t like that.

In the land I come from, a man uses two things to meet his cleaning needs: Fantastic and elbow grease. If he can’t get the grime out of something with one of those tools, it’s just time to throw on a fresh coat of paint. Where I come from, a man realizes that you can’t milk an almond, nor would you want to. Real men eat walnuts, anyway.

I am tired of your intellectual glasses, the small, self-conscious tattoo of something ironic peeking out of your Che Guevara tee shirt, and your sandals, still caked with the dirt from last year’s Bonnaroo or Austin Music Festival or whatever. I am tired of you and your ilk being only one inch taller than me, but pretending that you are okay with that. You shouldn’t be okay with that; you should will yourself to grow. That’s what a real man would do. I hate your facial hair, and the care you put into it. I really hate the fact that you have a facial hair strategy that you employ. Where I come from, a man is clean shaven, or in need of a shave. There’s no strategy there, just the basic realities of mother nature and time.

Most of all, I am frustrated with the example that you set for my son. I keep trying to get him to understand that a man needs to be skilled in the following: basic automotive maintenance and repair, killing things that ought not to be in the house, general lawn, yard and sidewalk care, helping out neighbors, driving a stick shift car, taking charge, and singing the low parts in songs. But you, Mr. Sensitive New Age Guy, you are blowing all of that with your Angie’s list and your Volvo stationwagon with free maintenance contract and your job where you don’t actually make anything or fix anything, but instead, you talk about “thought leadership” and “creating synergy” and “strategic consulting.”

I hate your silver wedding band with a Gaelic symbol on it. I cannot stand that you call yourself “spiritual, rather than religious,” and that you and your aggressively-bob-haircutted wife have specifically sought out a “water feature” for your home and placed your bed in accordance with principles of Feng Shui. I hate the fact that you researched dog breeds on the internet, and considered as one of your factors how much the dog would shed. You just are not useful in my world, sir. Not useful at all.

Now, for the love of God, I am not suggesting that you change everything at once. I don’t care if you like fashion, you get an occasional manicure, or that you cried at Marley and Me. I am not questioning your sexuality or suggesting that it has anything to do with this. What I am saying is that there are certain roles that nature and biology require of you. Strength. Jump-in-frontiness. A mind that is naturally suited to math and physics, e.g., how to put together shelves. And all I am saying is that you need to get back to that stuff. So quick, while there’s still time: go grill something, or build something, or throw something at something. It’s totally okay. We women can take it.