[personal profile] elzregina

...::: Men today :::...

(by: JR, 6.20.05) These days I spend my time thinking about men and women generally, and male and female archetypes particularly.  And I am left wondering, when did we turn into a country of soft mushy fat whiners?  Or, to be blunt, pussies?
And, to be more specific, when did men join the choir of whining chicks?  Whining chicks are the exact reason I do not associate with chicks, generally speaking.  Now our culture has come to the point it is hard to find men, actual manly men, men who do not whine, to hang with.  I have a friend, Candy, who calls manly men “men with penises” and whiney men “men with enlarged clitorises”.   It’s funny because it’s true. 
When I was a girl girls weren’t fun.  They didn’t want to do stuff outside, they were afraid of skateboards, they looked stupid throwing a baseball, didn’t like dirt or sweat, and they progressed (if you can call it that) from dolls in the younger years to makeup and curling irons and bulimia in the older years.

Boys, on the other hand, did stuff.  They rode bikes and skateboards, they took a hit and didn’t complain, and used baseballs instead of softballs.  I honestly don’t understand softballs.  The ball was too big for my hand, which made it very awkward to throw.  When I was 9 I begged my parents to put me in the boys little league rather than the girls softball league, which they did, though grudgingly. 
Them: “But you’re a girl”
Me: “But softball is stupid.  I want to play baseball”
Them: “But you’re a girl”
Me: “I want to play baseball”
Them: “But you’re a girl.  Softball is for girls, baseball is for boys.”
Me: “Softball is stupid. I want to play baseball.”
This went on for a few weeks until they let me sign up for baseball.  It was great.  I played second for three years, and couldn’t hit to save my life. I have gawd-awful hand-eye coordination.  Fortunately I was really short so I walked about 75% of the time.  And because I was a girl they didn’t guard first, so I stole a lot of bases. 
I also played soccer with the boys.  This is where I totally, finally, and completely understood that whining  pussy.   Because I was a girl I got tackled a lot at the beginning.  I got tackled and I’d complain.  Then I’d get tripped for no reason.  And I’d cry and complain.  Then two guys tackled me hard.  And I’d cry and complain loudly.  Then I’d get tackled again.  Hmmm.  Cause and effect in effect?  I’m not dumb; I only need seven or eight whacks upside the head with a brick to figure things out.  I got tackled again.  I got up and ran after the ball with my mouth shut.  And, predictably, I got tackled again.  And I got up, poured all my energies into revenge, ran after the ball, and took out the prick who took me out.  After giving a few hits the superfluous tackles stopped.  A most excellent life lesson.
So fast-forward twenty-some-odd years.  I’m at a barbeque at my cool chick-friend Michelle’s place on the lake last Sunday.  The sun is shining for the first weekend in two months, it’s hot, the boat is ready to go, there’s beef and alcohol, and I have my wetsuit for my first open water swim in two years.  Life is good.  I’m feeling uncharacteristically sociable and friendly (most likely due to the vodka), so I start talking to some guy.  Big mistake. After an all-too brief moment of meaningless chitchat he starts unloading on me about his “relationship” troubles.  I couldn’t believe it.  Apparently he really loves her but she doesn’t love him as much and he shares his feelings with her and that just pushes her away and he’s too sensitive blahblahblahblahfuckingblah about his “feelings”.  He totally killed my buzz. 
So I finally interrupted him with “Dude, are you a chick?” 
He stopped and stared at me.  “What?” 
I repeated my question, “Are. You.  A chick?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean…why are you telling me this?  I don’t know you, and you apparently feel free to dump your personal shit that I don’t care about on me.  You are being a whiney chick.” 

Ahhhh, the alcohol was back in effect.  Oh yeah.  We’re back up to speed.

He stared at me.  I stared at him.  I got bored.  I walked away.

Michelle came up to me with more alcohol, cuz apparently I needed it, and a smile. 

“What the hell was that thing?” I asked.
“He’s not mine; he’s Jack’s.”  Jack is her boyfriend, and he’s not whiney.
“He’s a pussy.”
I am not cool with this new generation of whining diva dudes, this whole group of reincarnated Judy Garlands.  Guys were my respite from girls.  Guys had performance standards, expectations of personal behavior.  You had to sink or swim; you either kept up with the pack or got dropped.   Which means I became strong, independent, resilient, flexible, competitive, developed high standards for myself, earned my own self-respect, and didn’t make excuses.  These are very difficult lessons for girls to learn, primarily because we are not exposed to many opportunities to learn them while playing with dolls, looking at boys, shopping for clothes, and gossiping.  And now it looks like guys are evolving into this same class of girls: soft, chubby, gossipy, whiney, and narcissistic.  We’re a mess.

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