LIVE LIKE A MAN

You ever notice how many people are running around telling everybody else how to be a man? Jesus Christ. Apparently there's a whole lot more to it than I realized. Used to be you grew up, got yourself a job, paid your bills, and tried not to be a complete asshole. That was pretty much the extent of it. Maybe you learned how to change a tire, mow your own grass, and keep your hands off another man's wife. Seemed simple enough to me. Now there's fellas on the internet explaining how a man is supposed to dress, what he's supposed to drive, how much money he ought to make, and apparently what kind of soap he's supposed to wash his balls with. I don't know about you, but I've been washing mine for forty-two years without anybody supervising the operation. Far as I can tell, they're doing just fine. And before somebody starts telling me a real man wouldn't talk about his balls in a book, let me save you some trouble. It's my book. I'll talk about my balls if I want to. You want to write a book about yours, go right ahead. I'll even buy a copy if the pictures are decent. Anyway, where was I? Oh, yeah. Being a man. Apparently, there's rules now. Lots of them. And everybody seems to have a different set. One fella says a real man ought to have a beard. Another says a real man ought to be clean-shaven. One says you ain't a man unless you can rebuild an engine. Another says you ought to be making six figures and wearing a suit to work. Well, shit. Which is it? Because I've spent most of my adult life wearing work boots and getting sawdust in places sawdust has absolutely no business being. I can build you a deck that'll probably outlast your marriage, but if you hand me a necktie, there's a good chance I'm going to need somebody to help me put the damn thing on. Does that mean I'm only half a man? And what about these fellas who spend half their day at the gym? Nothing wrong with working out. If that's your thing, have at it. But I saw a guy online not long ago explaining that a real man ought to have a certain amount of muscle on him. Apparently, if you can't bench-press whatever number he's decided on, you're not quite measuring up. Well, I got news for him. I've spent years hauling lumber, digging holes, carrying bags of concrete, and climbing up and down ladders. I don't particularly feel the need to pay somebody fifty bucks a month so I can pick up heavy shit in a building and put it right back down where I found it. I do enough of that at work. And nobody's ever handed me a protein shake afterward, either. Now, don't misunderstand me. I'm not saying there's anything wrong with wanting to look good, make money, or take care of yourself. Hell, I like looking good as much as the next fella. But there's a difference between doing something because you enjoy it and doing it because some stranger on the internet told you that's what a man is supposed to do. That's the part I don't understand. I saw one of those videos once where some young fella was explaining how a man ought to walk into a room. Shoulders back. Chin up. Make eye contact. Shake hands firmly. Establish dominance. Establish dominance? What the hell are we, a pack of German shepherds? If I walk into a room, I'm usually looking for one of three things. Somebody I know, something to eat, or the bathroom. I ain't particularly interested in establishing dominance over anybody. Especially if I need to piss. And apparently you're supposed to maintain eye contact with people to show confidence. Well, there's a fine line between looking somebody in the eye and staring at them like you're trying to remember where you buried the body. I've met a few fellas who could stand to learn that difference. Another thing that gets me is how much money some of these people think a man ought to spend proving he's a man. You need the right truck. The right watch. The right boots. The right clothes. And God forbid you drive something that's more than five years old. I've known guys who'd spend seventy thousand dollars on a truck and then complain they couldn't afford groceries. But by God, they looked successful sitting at the red light. I don't care what you drive. If you can afford it and it makes you happy, good for you. But if you're making yourself miserable trying to impress people who don't give a shit about you, I don't know what to tell you. Actually, I do. You're being a dumbass. And I say that as somebody who's bought his share of dumb shit over the years. I've had trucks I didn't need, tools I didn't need, and a few other things I probably shouldn't have spent money on. But we'll get into that later. Trust me, I've got enough stories about wasting money to fill a few pages without even trying. You know what I think is funny? The fellas who seem most concerned about everybody else's masculinity are usually the ones who can't shut the hell up about their own. They're always announcing it. "I'm an alpha male." "I'm a high-value man." "I'm a real man." Well, congratulations. You want a certificate? I don't remember ever introducing myself to somebody by saying, "Hello, I'm Joe Durst, and I'd like you to know I'm a heterosexual male who enjoys traditionally masculine activities." Usually I just say, "Hey, I'm Joe." Seems to work fine. And if somebody needs to spend twenty minutes explaining how masculine he is, I start wondering who exactly he's trying to convince. Because I don't generally find myself needing to announce things that are already obvious. I don't walk into a restaurant and tell the waitress I'm hungry. I figure she'll probably work that out when I order a cheeseburger. Same principle. Now, I do think there are certain things a man ought to be able to do. And before you get excited, I'm not talking about changing a transmission or chopping down a tree. I'm talking about taking care of your own shit. If you tell somebody you're going to do something, do it. If you borrow money, pay it back. If you screw something up, own it. And if you bring a kid into this world, you don't get to decide halfway through that parenting ain't particularly convenient anymore. That's not being a man. That's just being responsible. Matter of fact, women ought to be doing those things, too. So maybe I've already screwed up my own argument. Wouldn't be the first time. But I do think there's something to be said for a man who can look himself in the mirror and know he ain't spending his whole life making excuses. Now, does that mean I've always lived up to those standards? Hell no. I've broken promises. I've made mistakes. I've said things I shouldn't have said. And I've been wrong about things I would've sworn on a stack of Bibles I was right about. I just don't particularly enjoy admitting it. Ask anybody who's ever argued with me. Especially Tucker. That boy's a teenager now, and he's getting entirely too good at pointing out when I'm full of shit. I spent years teaching him to think for himself, and apparently the little bastard has decided to start practicing on me. Some days I wonder if I ought to have kept my mouth shut and just taught him how to mow grass. Here's another thing. I don't believe being a man means you have to be tough every minute of the day. I don't believe it means you can't be afraid of something. And I sure as hell don't believe it means you have to spend your life pretending you know everything. Although I'll admit, that last one took me a while to figure out. When I was younger, I thought asking for help made me look weak. I thought admitting I didn't know something made me look stupid. So I'd stand there trying to figure something out on my own when there was probably somebody ten feet away who could've shown me how to do it in five minutes. Stubborn? Absolutely. Proud? You bet your ass. Smart? Not particularly. And I'll tell you something else. I'm still not especially good at asking for help. I know that about myself. Doesn't mean I've fixed it. That's another thing I wish some of these internet experts would understand. Just because you know something about yourself doesn't mean you've suddenly figured out how to change it. Sometimes you know damn well you're being an asshole while you're still in the middle of being one. And sometimes you finish being an asshole, go home, have a beer, and decide you were probably right in the first place. I've done that, too. I suppose if somebody cornered me and demanded to know what makes a man, I'd tell him to quit worrying so damn much about what everybody else thinks. You want to wear a suit to work? Fine. You want to wear boots and come home smelling like sawdust? Fine. You want to drive a truck? Drive a truck. You want to drive a little car that gets forty miles to the gallon? Hell, with what gas costs anymore, you might be the smartest son of a bitch in the parking lot. I don't care. I've met decent men who didn't have much of anything, and I've met some real assholes who had everything money could buy. So I'm not particularly impressed by what somebody owns, how big his muscles are, or whether he knows how to rebuild a carburetor. I pay more attention to how he treats people when he doesn't need anything from them. And whether he does what he says he's going to do. Now, I'm forty-two years old. I've made plenty of mistakes, and I imagine I'll make a few more before somebody finally puts me in the ground. But I've also learned a thing or two along the way. Some of it might be worth listening to. Some of it you might think is complete bullshit. That's fine. You're entitled to your opinion, same as I'm entitled to mine. Just don't come into my kitchen telling me what kind of soap I'm supposed to wash my balls with. We've already covered that.