Walk like a man

Johnny Fontane: Oh, Godfather, I don't know what to do. I don't know what to do.

Don Corleone: You can act like a man!
- The Godfather, 1972

So I was in the gym yesterday, on the treadmill, sweating like a cat in a microwave (my writing teachers always urged me to use colorful imagery), and I looked over to my right and saw something disturbing.

There’s an exercise room there, with glass windows so you can watch what goes on in there. It can be pretty entertaining, especially during yoga. But yesterday they were doing a hip-hop aerobics class, in which a lot of women put on tights and shake their booties quite vigorously.

And right there in the middle of them all, rump-shaking and hip-thrusting and head-bobbing, was a guy! A dude! A fella! What in the wide, wide world of sports is a’going on here?

He was really into it, too, making those intense exercise faces as he swooped to the left, then swooped to the right, getting jiggy with it. At first I was going to give him the benefit of the doubt, and thought maybe he was in there just to meet girls, but the room wasn’t exactly full of Miss Universe contestants. Besides, he was really, really enjoying himself.

I heard on the radio, just that morning, a guy talking about the “feminization of men,” making the argument that men seem to be getting wimpier, and he was wondering if that’s what women really want. God, I hope not.

A few years ago I learned of the phenomenon of “metrosexual” men, meaning guys who were really into their clothes, and moisturized their skin, and went to hair salons, and got manicures and pedicures and generally stayed in touch with their softer side.

Oh, yeah, I remember guys like that when I was younger, only we had a different word for it – gay.

Not that there’s anything wrong with that.

Seriously, if this is what women really want these days, then it’s a good thing I got married a long time ago. I don’t think I could adapt. I can’t fathom getting a pedicure. So what if my toenails look like the petrified forest? I’ve never worn a pair of sandals in my life, so it’s not like anybody sees them. Besides, my feet are ticklish.

Some of these guys shave their chests, like that little fella who used to play Slater on “Saved By the Bell.” He also likes to dance, apparently. There’s really only two reasons a normal guy will dance voluntarily. Either he’s drunk, or he’s trying to entice his female companion into some sort of amorous activity.

Now, I will grant you, when you are dating a woman and you really like her, it’s OK to make a few sacrifices, because you have a goal. Nobody will hold it against you if you watch HGTV with her, or voluntarily go to Bed Bath and Beyond, or claim that you really like cats, or get talked into rollerblading.

But then you have to become a man again, and regain control of the TV remote, and cut your toenails with a pocket knife, and leave some socks lying around the house occasionally, just to show who’s in charge.

And ladies, this all may make me sound like a Neanderthal, but you gotta make up your mind. Do you want a guy who borrows your Neutrogena, or do you want a guy who can replace the garbage disposal and fix a tire and step on a spider? You can’t have both. I don’t know if real men eat quiche, but they certainly don’t do aerobics.