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4-10-05 Not long ago, I was in the shower, minding my own business, when --BOOM!-- my poofie exploded. Actually, for all you scientists out there, it was less of an explosion and more like a strand of DNA unraveling. Just a bunch of wet netting falling down like a curtain that is too heavy or Christmas lights off a wall or intestines out of an open stomach or whatever you prefer. I'd say you had to be there, but there is only so much room in my shower. But really what you're asking is, "Why does Tony use a poofie and why on earth is he writing about it?" Or maybe you don't know what one is, in which case you have obviously never shared a bathroom with a woman. Whatever the question, you're gonna have to wait a minute for the answer. Because my first reaction to the unraveling wasn't disgust that I was going to have to replace this item, it was disgust that I would have to face a lecture from my girlfriend, Little Miss Monster. I could hear it already: How do you keep doing this? Is your skin made out of sandpaper? I don't know why you can't use one of these things without tearing it apart! Roar Roar Roar! But I know why. Ready? It's because I'm not a "metrosexual." You've all heard the term; it's been a buzzword for about a year now. Most definitions read something like: "a male with a strong aesthetic sense who spends a great deal of time and money on his appearance and lifestyle." And now that all the metrosexuals have had a chance to flood out of the closet and be accepted, science forces us to examine the question: Is it nature or nurture? I say nature. LMM has been working on me for years, but to no avail. She's bought me lotions, hair gels, body wash, and of course poofies. She's told me what socks go with what outfits, shoes with belts, ties with shirts, which shirts to tuck in and which to leave out, and what jeans are out of style. I even get my hair cut by the same womon who cuts her hair. The point is, I had to learn all these things. I have to dilingently try to remember all these rules. I have to make an effort just to not be a slob. You're dealing with someone who still nearly peels off his work clothes on the car ride home in favor of shorts and a T-shirt (shirt optional depending on the temperature). I would rather throw on a crusty Cubs cap than style, or even wash, my hair. And just as easily, I'm sure I would abandon all the lotions and hair products and crazy plasticy washing devices if I ever had the opportunity. But not every guy is me. You know the type. The friend you called "gay" before the term metrosexual was around. The guy who wore fancy shirts, even some with purple or pink in them, always smelled good, wouldn't let anyone touch his hair, and still usually had a girlfriend. These are the guys who are worth millions to insightful companies pushing these male-oriented lotions and such. It may be true that little boys are bought trucks and sports equipment to play with and girls are taught to play with dolls. But when it comes to an affinity for beauty products, the sexes are equal. I'm pretty sure every baby had various powders and ointments administered to them. Monster Mom even tried some hair spray on me during grade school for a short while before giving in to the cowlicks in my mop. But I was never won over by any of these products. Nope, because I wasn't born that way. I'm sure the trend will continue. Any market like this that has been opened will surely be exploited further. Next we'll see advertised man makeup, man manicures and pedicures - if these things aren't happening already. We'll come to accept that the Rodmans and Gene Simmons' of the world were just way ahead of their time. And that's cool. Celebrating our differences is a liberating adventure. So the world will continue to have its Jeters and A-Rods (pretty boys/metros), and its John Kruks and Rod Becks (slobs). Whichever category you fit into, don't worry and don't make fun of the others. After all, "Maybe he's born with it." Have fun! -T |
Inside My Brain