Dad

All men have Dads, but not all Dads are men . . . and some men are Dads. The older male understands these distinctions, especially if he is a Dad. 

Being Dad has its rewards, and having money helps.  But as the manopausal male sees his children growing beyond his influence, he is grateful that his wife did such a respectable job of parenting.  And sometimes his heart swells with gratitude when one of his children sends a text which reads:  "Love you, Dad."  He wonders why they would love him at all--or if this is just a ploy to squeeze dollars from his insurance policy after he expires.

Being the Dad to older children--now adults--is a tough gig.  On the one hand, the manopausal male is thankful that the children are out of the house and now he can concentrate on giving his wife the attention she so desperately craves.  He asks her daily if she craves it.  She doesn't, of course, and so the male moves on to the important matters such as watching reruns of Gomer Pyle.

Throughout the house there are reminders that the older male is Dad.  There are photographs on the wall, vacant bedrooms littered with adolescent awards and trophies, and enormous bills from universities detailing what Dad must pay for a comprehensive campus meal plan that includes fresh salmon and cracked crab legs.  Dad writes checks to the Bursar's office even as he gums another peanut butter sandwich and stacks ten pound cans of pork-n-beans inside a bare cupboard.  

Soon, of course, the older male will not be called Dad any longer.  His children will become independent . . . which was the goal all along . . . and they won't send Twitters any longer.  They will move to far away places like Schenectady, and they will take up residence in cal-da-sacs, busying themselves with laundry and lawn care.

But the older male sees this as another rite of passage.  He just grays a little more, lifts a little less, and hopes his wife will consider eating at Applebees.  Afterwards, in the heat of a passion which they can no longer fulfill, they will watch the final fifteen minutes of Wheel of Fortune and call it a night. 

And when the older male says his prayers at closing time, he remembers why he became a Dad.    

Cyber Monday Man

Statistics reveal that over 90% of Cyber Monday shoppers are men, and over 50% of these males complete their shopping while sitting on the sofa in a tattered pair of boxer shorts.  The most popular item purchased on Cyber Mondays are those shrink-wrapped baskets of summer sausage and stinky cheese, which means that most manopausal males are purchasing gifts for other males and that women should clear the room on Christmas morning.

Cyber Mondays are popular with the manopausal male because he doesn't have to leave the comfort of his own home and hob-knob at the mall with 50,000 women in faux furs.  He can empty his bank account with Bed, Bath & Beyond purchases.  He can shop at Target, Pottery Barn, and the Lid Factory without burning a gallon of gas . . . even while he passes gas . . . and since he is alone at home, he can eat more nacho chips.

Manopausal males love Cyber Mondays because they can complete their entire Christmas shopping in less than twenty minutes and still feel good about themselves in the morning.  They never have to worry about returning items for exchange, not even tube socks, and they can also purchase items for themselves--such as fourteen pound cans of mixed nuts--and delude themselves into believing they are getting a bargain.

The manopausal male also loves Cyber shopping because he can casually drop questions into dinner conversation with his wife such as, "What do you want for Christmas?" or "Name five items you love that cost less than $10.95!"  In essence, the manopausal male can purchase the same item for his wife which he has purchased for the past thirty years . . . which is a bottle of perfume . . . and he can justify it by reasoning that he is making his wife smell better.  Naturally, the woman would like more variety in her Christmas gifts, but this is impossible, given the strict rules and time-constraints inherent in the male shopping season--which has now been reduced to a twenty-four hour time period or half time of a Notre Dame football game.  The older male knows he can do no better--which is exactly how he feels about sex--and so he presses the "my shopping cart" key with abondon until the bank calls to inform him he is, at last, overdrawn.

By the time Cyber Monday comes to an end, the President informs the general public that the fiscal cliff is no longer a problem, as the federal government has received more than 80 trillion dollars from Walmart purchases alone, and the women haven't even started shopping yet.

Just wait until Christmas.  The manopausal male once again holds out the hope that he will die before the holiday enters full bore.  And for comfort, he cooks another pot of soup.  

Man About Town

Sooner of later the manopausal male is forced to venture out of his home.  This usually occurs when his wife conscripts him to shop for Christmas gifts or when he he doesn't see his shadow.  Naturally, going public, he must then put clothes on, as his usual attire is not suitable for a visit to Radio Shack. 

When the older male ventures forth into society, he clearly lacks the savvy necessary to navigate a Walmart aisle, and yet he knows where to find a pound of bacon.  He feels conspicuous, and hopes that he will not run into anyone he knows.

As the male ages, he also desires to get his shopping done in as little time as possible.  This time-saving enterprise is important, as he knows he has less time to mess with.  So, he shops quickly--much like a jack rabbit on amphetamines.  The older male is an expert, for example, at stocking food for an entire week in less than five minutes by visiting the frozen food aisle where the hot pockets are displayed. He can purchase a greeting card for his wife in less than fifteen seconds if the word "love" is written on the outside of the card (the card's guts are unimportant, as he knows women care more about love than they do other sentiments like "world peace", "beautiful eyes" or "that thing you do to me when you say 'beer nuts' with that alluring lilt to your voice").  The older male can also complete his Christmas shopping in less than twenty minutes, especially if all of his gifts can be found in a single aisle at Target. 

Once the older male completes his shopping he is usually famished, and if he is in a mall, he begins the search for an Orange Julius.  Naturally, after an hour, he realizes that this establishment went out of business decades ago and he settles for a Cinnabon.  He sits in the food court for another fourteen hours while his wife completes her shopping and returns with one measly bag.  "Nothing was on sale," she announces.  But the older male knows this is a ploy to get him out of the house the following weekend and he grows to resent it.  He eats another Cinnabon to stave off depression.

The manopausal male returns to his lair, bloated and weary, and assumes his previous attire in sweat pants and coffee-stained T-shirt.  His wife wants to know why he changed his clothes so quickly, as she was hoping they could go out to dinner.  He offers to fix a big box of Hamburger Helper.  The woman weeps. 

The older male succumbs to pressure and dons his finest dark suit and red tie.  The woman perks.  They smile at each other.  He can't wait to get to Wendy's.       

Utility Man

The manopausal male is a seasoned veteran of Thanksgiving and understands his role in the traditional feast.  He will not participate in any level of the food preparation--although he may stick his hand up the turkey's butt to remove the giblets.  Otherwise, he will stand in the corner, make favorable comments about the cranberry sauce, and cut the cheese.

The older male, however, will be asked to carve the bird.  He has been making preparations for this adventure all year, sharpening blades in the garage, honing his knife skills, covering his wounds with clumps of gauze.  But when the time comes for him to enter the game from the bullpen, he will be warmed and ready.

The manopausal male loves this attention, when all eyes at the table are fastened upon him as he announces:  "And now, ladies and gentlemen, I give to you . . . the turkey!"  Here he twirls the blades, plays a quick game of mumbly-peg with the youngest child at the table, and then begins to carve the dark meat first, hacking away at this--the dumbest bird in the animal kingdom--with a relish and aplomb that astounds everyone in attendance. 

The guests, of course, do not really like turkey . . . they have come to see the show.  And the older male does not want to disappoint.  The manopausal male hacks away at the bird, performing the same routine that he has received from his forefathers through their foreskins, and ends by telling his son, "Some day I shall pass the baton to you and you will break the cycle and switch to canned ham."

There is always applause at the end of this manopausal tradition, and some guests are not too sicked to eat the deviled eggs.  A few will enjoy the stuffing, which has been prepared from the guts of the bird itself and doused with herbs and spices.  Everyone at the table will give thanks that they were not injured in the carving of the bird. 

Eventually Thanksgiving progresses to football, which is the thing men are truly thankful for, and the women wash the dishes, which remain piled on the table in a great, steaming heap of porcelain.  Throughout the day, most older men return to the table to pick through the liver and gizzard--which are those two dark particles of matter that the dog has left on the floor and will not eat. 

When the horn sounds, the manopausal male binds his wounds and returns his knives to their respective sheaths for another year, anticipating that uncle Gilbert will soon make the announcement that he is leaving--and hoping that he is talking in veiled terms about his death.  Sacks of food will be distributed to each, and another Thanksgiving come to an end.

Naturally, the manopausal male falls asleep on the couch, and he dreams that next year, he can carve the bird with a chainsaw. 

Understanding Male Evolution

The genesis of the modern male has long been the subject of debate.  Centuries ago, it was believed that males arrived when a woman and a midwife screamed at each other in a secluded room, the male being delivered on horseback by a circuit preacher named "Freddie".  However, as people slowly left behind these superstitions and entered the era of modern medicine and disposable diapers, they came to realize that the modern male has evolved through centuries of trail-and-error and because dad didn't wear a condom.

Biologists, however, have identified several stages of the male evolution.

The Neolithic Period
     In this earliest stage, the male emerges out of a stooping position, having spent too many years as a catcher in little league baseball.  He stands erect for the first time during his middle school years, revealing inches of butt crack hanging over the tops of his blue jeans, which are belted, roughly, at his knees.  During this early period of development, biologists agree that the male begins to grunt, forming the sounds necessary to communicate his need for a corn dog.  These sounds, though not yet a formed language, do possess the rudimentary elements of an alphabet, and some males at this stage can recite the A, B, C's.  The Neolithic Period in essence is defined by the formation of limbs, with some males beginning to sprout hair underneath the loin cloth.

The Neanderthal Period
     This stage of male development, known in some circles as the "terrible twenties", sees a rapid rise in the male interest toward the opposite sex.  Here the male ventures out of his chicken bone-littered lair and tries to grab a female interest by such feable attempts as flowers, boxes of assorted road kill, or poetry written on cave walls with charcoal and glow-in-the-dark stickers.  Some of these poems represent the first formed language of the male, and can involve words like "love", "eHarmony" and "honkers".  This stage of male development, however, is very basic, and should not be confused with the fully formed man.  The mature male, generally, does not evolve until much later, usually just weeks before his death, when his wife realizes how much his life insurance policy is worth.

The Cro-Magnon (or Modern Male) Period
     Biologists agree that the modern male does not emerge until the creation of baseball.  This period of male development can best be defined by 1. a back that is fully covered with hair 2. the waxing of the back 3. balding.  In this stage of male development we encounter a man who is fully articulate, who can speak of "disillusionment" or "antidisestablishantarianism" or "golf".  Here the male is also able to express himself openly and honestly with an older woman, offering compliments such as "you're squeezably soft" or "hello!" or "I love what you've done with the place."  The Cro-Magnon male is fully developed in every way, including his nipples, and he generally sports four or five tattoos, two of which involve snakes and skulls.  Scientists have discovered evidence of the Cro-Magnon male in such places as Siberia, Milwaukee, and Sammy's Sports Bar and Grill.  

As you can see, the evolution of the male has not been a quick or easy slope.  Centuries have been involved, and a great deal of liquor.  Women, in particular, will want to check their men carefully to make sure they are fully developed.  There are always signs.  Any man who still pees in the woods is a keeper.  
  

Next Man Up

The manopausal male is prone to groin injury and identifies closely with football cliches--especially when the coach announces, "Next man up!" The older male, in fact, often wishes that he could call in a substitute from the sidelines . . . a man, perhaps, who is fresh out of virility college and has earned a master's degree in romance and metal-craft.

When the manopausal male hits the turf hard, he rarely gets up quickly. Rather, he lingers on the ground until his wife rushes down from the stands, offers the appropriate sympathy, and agrees to rub his entire body with Aspercreme. He knows she wants it, but he parlays the injury with sorrowful moans until she also fixes him a grilled cheese sandwich and a steaming bowl of chicken soup. And if his wife has the heft (and the kind of deep resiliency a good wife should have) she might also carry him home on a stretcher.

While he's healing from his cotton candy injuries, the manopausal male may call another man up to do work around the house . . . a carpenter, perhaps, or some guy named "Randy" who is adept at changing light bulbs or fixing a shower nozzle. The manopausal male trusts that this next man up will be worth the $95 service call (plus parts and sales tax), and that the next man's help will provide him with the appropriate window in which to heal from his back injury . . . a soreness that began when he rolled over in his sleep the night before.

Naturally, the manopausal male hopes to be back on his feet soon, but he does enjoy catching up on Days of Our Lives and watching Judge Judy. He could get used to the pace, and imagines this is what retirement must be like . . . only with his wife at home, too, where of course, they will share endless romance on that tiny two-cushion thingy she purchased four years ago at a yard sale.

The older male hopes that his injuries do not cause him to be cut from the team--and without pay. Although he is only a shadow of his former self, he still dreams of carrying the ball across the goal line and would love to negotiate a new contract. He doesn't want his wife ogling the sidelines for a substitute male, and is grateful to be under her coaching tutelage.

Manswers

Men, as they age, are often regarded as bastions of wisdom:  which is why older men do a lot of sitting, so that they can look important on park benches and answer questions such as "can you recommend a good taco?" or "have you ever stuffed a flying squirrel?"

The manopausal male, because of his vast experience, typically can offer advice on a variety of subjects, even flamingo origami.  And because the older male has nothing better to do, he typically is willing to dispense his wisdom to any who ask:  adults, children, or even tax attorneys.

Most manopausal wisdom is usually dispensed in one of three categories:  sports, romance, and how to find an exceptional cocktail wiener.  But as for manswers, the most common here include:

A sport manswer:  Babe Ruth
A romance manswer:  eat plenty of vitamins

Astoundingly, these manswers satisfy most questions and will usually result with the person asking the question turning into the sunlight, raising an eyebrow, and saying, "I'd never thought of that before, O Wise One!"  Finding these manswers to life's deepest questions does not come easily.  Most men have dedicated long hours to this quest while sitting in the bathroom, pondering these deep mysteries even as they scream, "Can you toss me a roll?"

Naturally, young people who still have a life have not arrived at this level of wisdom, as they have not yet become greeters at Walmart.  The young are too busy playing sports and enjoying romance instead of pondering sports and romance.  The latter is reserved for the manopausal male, who could write dissertations on what he has learned about these things since he stopped participating in them.  He is an expert now.  And when he doesn't have a manswer, he asks his wife, who is typically even more decrepit than he is, and she makes him a grilled cheese sandwich and tells him, "You had me at hello."

The older male sits for hours in total silence, wondering if there is more wisdom he could be dispensing and if he should charge for it.  $1.95 an hour seems about right.  And he considers advertising.

Eventually the manopausal male realizes that no one is listening to him, especially not his children, and his wife is laughing at him behind his back. He decides to keep his opinions to himself--which may be the wisest trick of all--and when he goes to bed at night, he is thankful that he listened to himself and made the extra effort to floss his molars.  He must protect his wisdom teeth, even though all of them are filled with lead and serve as receptors to high-frequency radio stations being transmitted from Uzbekistan.  He goes to bed at night realizing that the Mayans were incredibly wise--being able to predict the end of the world and all.  His world will end soon, which brings him back to romance.  And when that doesn't work out, he turns on the TV and watches sports.  He knows all there is to know about badminton.  But he hasn't played in years.           

Mr. Clean

The older male is not known as a clean freak.  Through the years, he has come to realize that his definition of clean is vastly different from his wife's.  A man can, for example, tidy up a room--essentially relocating great piles of junk--and talk himself into believing that he has cleaned it.  His wife, on the other hand, cleans house by first tossing out the male and then proceeding.

A man's definition of clean begins early, usually during the college years, when a dorm room is regarded as clean if there are less than two piles of vomit on the carpet.  The man ages gracefully from there, rotating his dorm room sheets at the end of each school year, usually tossing these in the trash and starting over.  Sometimes he does laundry.

This struggle for clean is why many men remain single . . . and why they eat food from a microwave that appears to double as a taxidermy laboratory.  Single men, of course, are far healthier than married men, as they have become immune to life-threatening diseases such as botulism, rickets, and scurvy . . . having survived on Swanson's frozen dinners for decades.  These single men also need no embalming when they die, as the vast amounts of preservatives residing inside their tissues has, essentially, pickled them.

The older married man, however, must learn to live with a clean-freak woman who insists that the shower basin be scrubbed monthly.  He usually does this scrubbing while he is showering himself, and often contracts athlete's tongue because of it. 

By the time the manopausal male has reached maturity, he is wholly familiar with the various cleaning products and supplies that his wife uses.  Most of these are kept under the kitchen sink and can also be used to kill rats.  These same products are used to clean the coffee cups the male drinks from every morning and, following a good scrubbing, his coffee may produce psychedelic dream landscapes comparable to those achieved through ecstasy or mild narcotics. 

However, since clean makes for a good marriage, the male accepts that he will die an early death by vacuum cleaner. One day he will simply be sucked away and disappear into the Bissell.  His wife will find him inside the bag, and this is how she had preplanned his funeral.

The Man Formerly Known As . . .

Pop artists, premier athletes and movie stars are all accustomed to changing their names.  But if anyone is entitled to a new moniker, it should be the older male. 

The manopausal male, after all, begins to take on new characteristics as he ages.  The onset of gray drags along a new appearance as well as a refreshed outlook on life, and with it, the need for a name change.

Some men, for example, could change their names from Harry to "Real Hairy".  This name change hits at the core of his new identity and the copious amounts of nostril hair he finds ringing the bathtub drain.  Other name changes along these lines could include "Sleepy", "Dopey", "Sneezy" and "Mr. Softee."

Some men, however, may wish to retain some vestige of their former selves, and thus would prefer to be "the man formerly known as . . . . "

Along these lines, we find:
The man formerly known as Lord of the Cal-da-sac
The man formerly known as Your Husband
The man formerly known as the Idiot Who Didn't Signal that Left Turn
The man formerly known as The Floor Manager of Ayers
The man formerly known as Ralph

Of course, not all men desire a name change as they enter manopause.  Some prefer to go by the same dippy names their mother gave them at birth--a name she likely lifted out of a Sears & Roebuck catalogue or overheard on a soap opera like Days of our Lives.  These men--usually "Bob" or "Tom" or "Jimmy"--prefer to die the same way they came in, as plain scoops of vanilla on a sugar cone.  You won't find them down at the court house changing their names to "Numero-Hottie" or "Metta U-Mother Last Friday" or "Stretch Limo" or "Hot Tub Hal" or "Touch Me-and-I Breaka U-Face".  

Most men, however, would prefer a different name in their older age.  Names like "Geronimo" or "Kicking Mule" or "Vlad the Impaler" are always popular.  Other popular name-changes among older males include "Sunblock Willie", "The Best on e-Harmony" and "Buck Naked".

As you can see, the older male has many names to choose from, and the onset of manopause should not be a deterrent when it comes to selecting a new identity that will reinforce the essence of a man.  Naturally, some men are more honest than others.  

But you don't have to search far to find these modern day Diogeneses.  You'll know them by name.  Just look for any man at the office who has legally changed his name to "Mr. Beer Belly", "Lord Lard Butt", "Frank the Fifty-Year-Old Shortstop" or "Al".  Or, these men can also be found at home, watching reruns of Gomer Pyle.    

Mr. October

The older male can't hit a baseball, but he nevertheless considers himself a Mr. October.  His dream of playing in the big league never dies.

During the World Series, these dreams come full circle, and the older male prepares for the fall classic by pulling a hamstring or blowing out a knee.  This insures that he will have ample excuse for sitting on the sidelines and eating nacho chips.  He can, like all of the other big leaguers who huddle in the dugout because of injury, watch the game from the sidelines.  This makes him feel tough.  It makes him feel like he is a part of the team, though all he wears is a team hat.

Mr. October is the guy who tells his wife, "I could have made that catch" or "I once batted .280 in little league--and the pitching was rough back then!" or "what you are smelling is the dog . . . not me!"

This is how the game was meant to be played, and Mr. October is aware of his limitations.  He does not rise for the singing of the national anthem.  He often falls asleep before the seventh inning stretch.  He does not disagree with Joe Buck or Tim McCarver.  He's just tired. 

As he dreams, Mr. October sees himself in the prime of his life, when he could eat an entire bag of peanuts.  He bashes homers.  He runs bases like a gazelle.  But when he wakes in front of the TV in a pool of his own saliva, he realizes that he has slept through another game.  The manager did not call his number.  He was not playing center field.  Rather, he has fallen asleep on a threadbare couch littered with pretzels and sub sandwich crumbs.  His bladder is full and he can barely rise to walk to the bathroom. 

As he lumbers toward bed, stretching out of the bullpen, he wonders why the games begin so late.  Why do they play these games in October anyway?  Now that the World Series is in swing, winter can't be far behind.  

It's rather depressing.  But that's why he plays the game. 

Men at Work

Older men, it seems, have difficulty differentiating themselves from their work.  When someone at the AA meeting asks, "What can you tell us about yourself?", the older man always begins by saying, "Hello, my name is Dilbert, and I am a gastroenterologist."

Gastroenterologists are not necessarily prevalent at AA meetings, but you can bet there are plenty of plumbers, teachers, and newspaper editors.  Same goes for federal prison guards, landscape architects and concert cellists.   Men can scarcely be separated from their work.

The older male, eventually, comes to define himself by his work.  That is why older males will fabricate extravagant work-related stories that always end, "And that's how I came to get the big promotion!"  Older males need the structure and accolades that come from extravagant lies and that's why many men, in their latter years, become politicians.

Generally, men love to work . . . unless, of course, they specialize in animal feces or have to light candles in a small cubicle while they write reports about animal feces.  Men prefer the wide open spaces of the showroom, the warehouse, or the basement.  Few have the patience to work with tiny objects like cellular phones or stuffing toys into Happy Meal bags.

Men rarely take their lunch to work.  Women do that.  Rather, men go out to eat in herds and order eighty-ounce steaks.  These are called "business lunches" and roughly four percent of men do not return from them.  These business lunches are also where men talk to other men about their work with other men and where, in certain circles, men later visit the restroom together and stand next to each other while they urinate.  This also counts as a business deduction. 

Older males, as a general rule, also begin work much earlier than their younger counterparts.  While the younger male usually begins his work day at Walmart in the early afternoon, the older male rises at 2 a.m. to begin his day selling catalogue advertising for Pottery Barn or making sure that the Blueberry syrup carafes are full at IHOP. 

These generational differences can also be noted in the fact that most younger males wear tattoo sleeves with a running sexual commentary while their older counterparts carry pocket notes from their wives which read:  Don't forget to bring home a gallon of milk and some chocolate syrup if you expect to make out.  The differences here could not be more apparent, and the older males, of course, make upwards of $.73 more per hour.

When the older male retires from his work, of course, he receives a gold watch--which turns out to have been made in Taiwan.  The older male begins to draw social security even as he harbors resentment toward the young punk from Stanford who inherited his position.  In time, however, he comes to terms with his work history and moves to a trailer park in Florida.

But success doesn't wear off.  You can tell by a man's shoes.  They still have crap on the soles. 

Understanding Male Birth Order

Does birth order make a difference?  Scientists and sociologists suggest that birth order has a profound effect on our development as tadpoles, and that, given the proper encouragement, a male can actually grow up to be president of a mid-level bank.

The older male understands this natural order. In fact, it's why he eats ice cream and reads women's magazines at the dentist's office.  He wants to understand basic biology and learn the thirty-nine steps necessary to get a woman into bed.

Understanding his birth order is paramount to this success.

First born males, for example, love cheese more than other primates.  This is because they see themselves as a big block of Limburger (sometimes known as "the big stinky cheese") and they learn how to cut it early.  First born males love their mothers, hate their fathers, and generally lord it over the rest of humanity and make insane pronouncements like:  I am king of the world! or I once belched for fifty-seven seconds! or Would you like to see a superb set of pectorals?  The first born male is also an over-achiever, usually develops his own photographs in a basement darkroom, and goes by the nicknames Honcho, Ringo, or King Alfred on the Can.

Middle-born males are another breed entirely.  The middle-borns (MBs, but not to be confused with BMs), have a penchant for salted meats and usually pick their noses.  They are always in the middle of things and love to go to drive-in-movies.  Most drink Irish Whiskey instead of coffee and generally work in careers that require mediation or flexibility, such as gym teachers, circus contortionists, or as mechanics who can untwist those really small nuts on the backside of a Japanese engine block.  Middle-born males can get along with anyone, even career politicians, and most of them stay up long past their bedtimes.

Youngest-born males can be fun-loving and care-free souls, but if pressed to the wall, they can become first-borns through a simple sex-change operation (and many of them do).  These youngest males, as they age, often grow teats, and most of them have more than twelve dental filings.  Look for younger born males in the candy aisle at the grocery store or at the local Dairy Queen (they will be the ones purchasing Dilly Bars).  Youngest-born males are frequently employed as meteorologists, prison clowns, and as Cedric the Entertainer.  Women love to date them and many youngest-born males ride Harleys.  They wax their legs.  And backs.  And most of them are named "Freddy".   

As you can see, male birth order plays a huge impact in the life, career and romance of the older male.  Women who want to understand the older male, in particular, should take a look at his fake ID and determine if he has the qualities she is looking for in a modern primate who will soon be collecting social security.  Not all men will live up to these high standards, of course.  But if she continues to search, she can usually find a suitable match on the internet or at the local bar. 

The Average Male

Who is this "average male" that everyone keeps speaking about?  Men who are going through manopause might have the answer.

As older men have discovered, the average male is about 5'11" tall, weighs 190 pounds, and fabricates an average golf score that is, on average, 100 strokes less than the actuality.  This average male also consumes (on average) 2500 calories a day--a great deal of it from cans of Beefaroni--and drinks his own body weight each week in diet sodas. 

The average male is, of course, married . . . but he lies about the frequency of his sexual activity or, perhaps, chooses to live in the fairy tale land of denial or cannot bring himself to admit that his wife is no longer interested in his one-dimensional game plan.  The average male does attempt to substitute other pitches, of course, but these are quickly and efficiently bunted foul in headaches or bolts of laughter . . . especially if the average male has decided to pierce his nipples--which, by the way, is not your average solution.  (Listen closely to the Cialis commercial!)

Among other traits of the average male are:

* A General Malaise About Life
* Shopping at Walmart 
* A fascination with old pairs of underwear and creative ways to utilize them as dust rags for the kitchen table, as sofa stuffing, or as kites. (Some may also be cut and woven into wonderful Christmas gifts for the mother-in-law.)
* Lisping
* Smearing honey on toast
* A fascination with retirement and wondering how he can cash in his entire 401-k to purchase a major league baseball team on the cheap (think Cleveland).
* Thoughts about death
* Laughing at knock-knock jokes
* More thoughts about death
* Plate spinning

As you can see the average male has much going for him.  He is cerebral, conscious, and concerned.  He is also nuts. 

Of course, he isn't really.  He's just average.  But he doesn't want to believe he's just one in a long line of men who can no longer swing a golf club.



  

The Autumn of a Man's Life

Manopause is the male version of autumn.  As a man ages, his color turns, he exfoliates, and eventually begins to sag.  Large portions of his body drop toward the ground.  Eventually someone comes along and rakes him up.  Or, in the event he prefers a sommelier's analogy with wine, he pops his cork.

Most men do not age gracefully.  Men are not like women.  They do not become more beautiful, as do their wives, lingering in the artifice of menopause.  Most men wake up one morning, look at themselves in the mirror, and discover that they have taken on the appearance of Charles Manson.  They gasp and go back to bed.  Eventually they get over it and wash the sheets.

The autumn of a man's life is also cleansed by a frigid breeze.  Various cold-fronts move in and inhabit portions of his body and his mind.  He begins to ask deep questions--penetrating questions--about his existence and his purpose in life.  What am I here for?  What have I accomplished?  What would be the tip on a $157.95 restaurant check?

These questions and others give his life clarity.  He no longer worries about little matters--such as death or paying income taxes--and he takes on the child-like qualities that endeared him to his wife in the beginning of their romance.  Some of the qualities include a sense of humor, taking out the trash, and a willingness to receive a collect-call from his wife if she loses her cell phone.

Many men, as they enter their manopausal years, also have religious awakenings.  Some arrive at the realization that they can't sing worth s*** and begin taking banjo lessons.  Others begin serving in soup kitchens or arrive at the realization that they are the 114th manifestation of the Dali Lama and move to Tibet where they take up residence in a grass hut.

The autumn of a man's life also leads him to wonder:  is this all there is to life?  Isn't there more?

Eventually he finds the answer in canned goods.  He studies tea leaves and counts the number of pork bits in his beans.  It all means something.  And he knows the answer was inside him all along.

It's inside his gall bladder, and the doctor tells him it must come out.

Man's Best Friend

Some people will tell you that a man's best friend is his dog.  But this sentiment could be disparaging to a man's wife, especially if she looks like a poodle.

As a man ages, he discovers that he has many friends.  Most of them are dead, which is not all-together a bad thing, as it saves him a lot of money on greens-fees and beers.  And of the friends who are still living, many have difficulty remembering his name.  His friends remind him that he is lucky to be alive and that, within the course of human events, things could have turned out worse.

The manopausal male's best friend is, of course, his wife.  He has learned this through trial and error--perhaps talking to a dog here and there, or adopting a stray chipmunk, or through his feeble attempts to talk to a red rubber ball during his psychological counseling sessions with Dr. Mengele, Jr.  Mostly, he enjoys his wife's company, especially when she is absent.  Sometimes he dreams about her.  And some of these dreams are erotic and usually involve kitchen utensils of various sizes and shapes.

The older male appreciates his wife for many reasons--not the least of which is her willingness to live with him--and as he enters manopause he counts his blessings and hugs her a lot more.

Naturally, the older woman returns these sentiments--which are usually redeemed in the form of coupons or meatloaf.  Women, of course, are here in the height of their sexuality and attractiveness even as their husbands are wilting inside their skins and can longer make a decent martini.  This dichotomy can be frustrating, especially if the man is awake, and some older women may  be tempted to go on the prowl for a younger man.  These women are often called "cougars" . . . meaning that they never trim their toenails and are also willing to pick up a dinner tab at Applebees. 

The manopausal male, however, can still keep his wife satisfied if he pays for spa treatments or is able to express his innermost emotions (how he feels about the Green Bay Packers, for example, or his frustrations with collective bargaining). An older woman will usually latch onto these emotions and fix dinner, and some women will put out once in a while if the man uses the word "love" in a proper grammatical context. 

The older male, of course, cherishes his wife's friendship.  Chances are, the wiener dog is already buried in the back yard and his wife is now his best option.  He loves her, too.  And sometimes he reminds her that she is his best friend.

 

The Dating Game

Men at mid-life no longer date.  There are reasons for this.

First, if the man is not married, his new manopausal status catapults him into the arena of "the truly desperate."  He knows he has little time to waste and so he fills out an application on e-Harmony or Match.com and finds the one woman (usually located in Slovenia or Sasquatch, Alaska) who has five of the seven compatibility features he is looking for:  the most important of these being money.  He has no desire to date a rich lady,  and so he gets married over the internet, or at the bar in Topeka where they meet for the first time (bartenders, we've been told, can perform marriage ceremonies in case of emergency and, by God, this is one!).

The married male, on the other hand, has no need to date, either.  Once the children are grown and have moved out of the house and the cat is dead, the married man and woman realize that every day--especially every evening--is a date night.  They can come and go as they please.  Eat whatever they like.  Make love on top of the washing machine when it kicks into the spin cycle.  They can even watch Conan O'Brien and fall asleep on the couch in a spooning position.  These things never happen . . . but they are possible.

Non-manopausal people, however, might not recognize these evenings as "date nights".  They are, after all, fixated on finding a baby sitter or setting aside the twenty-five minutes needed to make a quick dash to Arby's without the kids.  These non-manopausal losers must rely on heavy orchestration to plan even the feeblest attempts at "solitude" and, if they go to dinner, normally don't finish the main course and carry home most of their fillet Mignon in a doggie bag.

For the manopausal male, however, every day is a date night.  When he meets his wife after work, he usually asks, "What would you like to do tonight?"  The field is wide open--and the couple has so many choices they generally feels like they are shopping at Target.  In most instances, since the wife is too tired to fool around or eat Hamburger Helper, the male suggests that they go for a hike or pack up the kayaks.  The woman suggests they drive uptown or, perhaps, make a two-hour visit to Home Depot to look at carpet swatches.  These scenarios constitute a manopausal date.

But there are others.  Including:

Date #1
The woman comes home from a twelve-hour work day and says, "I just need to talk tonight.  I want to tell you about the horrible day I had!"  They walk to Starbucks and the male pretends to listen for four-and-a-half hours while he writes an incredible essay about Polar Bear scat.  Yes, this is a date, and one of the better ones, actually.

Date #2
The male bursts through the front door at home and announces that he has no evening meetings, no work to do, and is at the complete disposal of the woman's whims or pleasures.  She is elated at his availability and asks him to paint the trim in the downstairs bathroom.  Yes, this is a manopausal date and is an evening the woman will long remember.

As you can see, the manopausal dating experience for the married man is filled with fits of excitement and lots of heavy breathing.  That is why, after each date, the married male enjoys a cold beverage and sleeps like a baby.

 

What's In YOUR Wallet?

The older male, mid-manopause, is coming to grips with his wallet.  He discovers, for example, that he rarely carries cash.  There are reasons for this.  Chief among them:  he has little cash to carry.  Most of his cash, of course, is simply being transferred to a university campus where, subsisting on a meal plan of immense proportions, a son or daughter grazes over a smorgasbord of caviar and smoked salmon while the parents spoon cold pork'n beans out of a Costco can roughly the size of a trash compactor.  This is because the parents buy in bulk to save money, and subsist on crude roughage and lawn clippings so that they can ship even larger sums to the bursar's office.

Eventually one of the parents develops a mild case of scurvy and is forced to eat an orange (which costs money), but the memory still lingers.  Meanwhile, the man's wallet thins, and he discovers that, if he searches beneath the floor mat of the car or lifts a sofa cushion of the basement couch, he may find enough pocket change to purchase a bottle of rock gut wine and thereby ease his suffering.

Meanwhile, back in walletville, the older male discovers that, since he has been using his wallet as a personal filing cabinet for phone numbers, pin numbers, and crib notes, one of his butt cheeks is flatter than the other and he has developed a hitch in his gait.  He considers ridding himself of this leather monster in his hip pocket, but realizes that, the moment he tosses these five-year-old phone numbers and notes, he will need all of it and will have lost out on a million-dollar contact.  And so he adds more.

Eventually his wallet takes on the same shape as his body:  round in the middle and frayed at the edges.  He's lived with his wallet for decades--just like his wife--and has learned to count on it always being there . . . empty . . . when he reaches for it.  He only buys two gallons of gasoline at a time.  He eats more pork'n beans and attempts to disguise his flatulence by dousing himself each morning with his son's quart of Axe.

Naturally, the older male who is paying for a college education gets little nookie.  Women are turned on by money and he only has enough cash to get things started but never enough to finish the job.  He grows cynical and jaded.  Writes love poetry.  And eventually he occupies himself with YouTube reruns of Gomer Pyle.  

When the older male does get cash in his wallet he hangs onto it like his lost virginity.  He dreams of buying the two wieners for a dollar at Speedway and saving the rest to bribe his wife with a single red rose.  He hopes for a kiss if nothing more.  And he prays she doesn't ask him for money.     

Manopausal Medicine

Every man's medicine cabinet is littered with out-of-date prescriptions and has-been pills.  But as the older male stretches into manopause he discovers that his assortment is little more than a witness to a by-gone era.  He no longer needs Brylcreme, for example, and he wonders who did.

Gone also is the need for such illustrious wonder-working potions as the multi-vitamin . . . at his age, and with his now-limited diet, he should be able to get 100% of the recommended daily allowance from a single banana.  In addition, he no longer needs his 45-year old vial of Carter's Little Pills (what were they, and why were they so small?), his Grecian Formula (hell, he'd need a gallon to color every gray hair on his body!), and his 30-year-old tube or Preparation-H (really, when was the last time he jammed that stuff up his rear and who was the last one to use the tube? Was it Dad?).

No, the manopausal male cleans out his medicine cabinet and rids himself of his history:  decades of expired drugs that were once so potent they could turn his tongue green and make his eyeballs spin in their sockets.  Now, these vials are only toxic to look at.  The sight of them sickens him, as he realizes that some day soon he will be self-supporting the entire pharmaceutical industry through a single refill.

Eventually the older male realizes that he will no longer need a decongestant or a cough syrup--especially the 25-year-old variety that his been sitting on the shelf since the Reagan administration.  Rather, if he becomes ill, he will use his sick days and enjoy a week's vacation at home watching The Young and the Restless.  He will fix himself hot chicken soup and order Chinese.  He will cough up a lung, return to work, and tell Finkelstein in accounting that he was working from home and actually accomplished more because he didn't have to wear a paisley necktie.

Once the manopausal male has cleaned out his medicine cabinet, he can begin utilizing this space for other ends: storing flashlight batteries, stockpiling small bags of nacho chips, and decorating the second shelf with miniature sculptures created from toenail clippings and toothpaste.

Later, he will consult his doctor and ask for the drugs he really needs.  These he will buy in bulk from Costco and consume like jelly beans.

And his wife will ask him every morning:  "Have you taken your pills?"

The Age of the Superhero

We live in the age of the superhero.  And nearly every manopausal male has a favorite.  All are "men", of course.  There's Superman, Spiderman, Batman.  Each attends to fighting evil with his various assortments of gadgets or gizmos. 

The older male likes to think of himself as a type of superhero, but instead of fighting evil or crime, he's fighting the insidious onslaught of arthritis.  He's waging war against the elusive Dr. Gout.  He dreams of wearing a cape and getting the girl.

Secretly, older males wish that Hollywood and graphic artists would not depict these superheroes in tights.  He knows he would not look good in a leotard, especially chartreuse, and would forever be tugging at the fabric wedged between his butt cheeks.  Tights are not realistic.  But the older male dreams of a superhero named Oldman or Graybeard or Pharmacyman--a superhero who could embody the concerns of the older male population and represent him among the pantheon of crusaders.

The manopausal male no longer dreams of saving the world.  He has tempered his imagination and now dreams of saving money on car insurance.  If he is lucky, he can save half of his dinner steak in a doggie bag for lunch the following day.  His only strength resides in his ability to see his own weaknesses and to arrive at the conclusion that he is fortunate to still have a willing wife (Wonderwoman). 

Men of a certain age do, however, frequently fly through the air.  But now, when they land they break a hip.  Afterwards, they receive a super-bill for services rendered.

Superheroes are normally portrayed in the prime of life.  We don't know what happens to older superheroes, or where they go to die.  But the manopausal male still considers himself invincible.  He doesn't don a cape, but he can work a spatula and he keeps his arsenal of lawn equipment at hand.  He keeps his gaze ever fixated upon the skies, waiting for the signal to appear that will vault him into his costume and onto his riding mower.







 

Card Carrying Member

By the time the male species has entered manopause, his hip pocket is bulging under the extra fat of his wallet, for he is porting a preponderance of plastic cards--all designed to give value to his life and siphon gigantic sums of money from his bank account.  His wallet is loaded with cards for car insurance, health insurance, dental, gym membership, debit, and grocery.  He may also be porting gift cards, key cards, rental cards and, under certain circumstances, a stack of family photos that makes him walk like Charlie Chaplin and is leading him toward a hip replacement. 

The older man, however, enjoys carrying these cards. Whenever he opens his wallet in the grocery store and a pile of cards tumble out, he feels tough.  The sight of these cards sends an adrenaline rush through his system.  He hopes the younger females of the species will take note and swoon at the sight of his Senior Discount Card from McDonalds.  

Often, when the manopausal male is in league with other older men, he will compare notes, and ask how much they have saved by switching to Geico.  He will calculate how much a senior discount will save him on an oil change at Grease Monkey.

Naturally, there are older men who flaunt their card-carrying status, pointing out that they were just recently accepted into the American Express Club or were given Gold status at Hertz rental car.  Others attempt to trump these accomplishments by mentioning their frequent-flyer miles or by flashing the Blue Cross Blue Shield insurance card that paid for their most recent colonoscopy and polyp removal.  And yes, a few older men--but these are just the scum bags--feel obligated to flash their CVS discount cards to prove that they saved $1.95 on their most recent Viagra prescription.

Most older males, however, go about their card-carrying duties with an air of humility.  They realize that a 10% discount card at Home Depot will only take them so far (maybe through a pack of 40-watt bulbs) and after that, they will have to hire help or ask their wives to fix the sink.  They don't flaunt the plastic in their wallets and, in order to save themselves from the air of disapproval, they eat off the Wendy's value menu instead of brandishing a VISA at Applebees. 

Eventually, the manopausal male will pre-plan his own funeral and pay for it by writing a bad check.  He knows it will bounce.  But it beats credit.  And the funeral director will never be able to discuss the matter with the deceased.

    

Mr. Domestic

The traditional American marriage consists of one man at rest and one woman laboring under the burden of housework.  However, as any manopausal male can attest, a woman's expectations rise on the sharp curve of ageing, and once the nest is emptied of children, a man can expect to shoulder far more of the domestic pursuits.  Essentially he will be doing everything around the house in exchange for his wife's salary and the promise of a yearly sexual rendezvous, which usually lasts about three minutes.

The older male becomes adept at cooking, cleaning, scouring, mopping, scrubbing, stacking, shining and vacuuming.  (He does not, however, under any circumstances, wash windows or do laundry.  His wife knows he can wear a single thread of underwear for weeks on end and this will pressure her to do a load.)

As time passes in the empty nest, the manopausal male also begins to clip coupons and create shopping lists.  He watches for meat specials and buys in bulk.  He inspects expiration dates.  And then one day his wife comes home, opens the freezer, and discovers that he has stuffed it with 250 Swanson's Low-Calorie Meatloaf dinners because these were "on special."

It takes four months to eat through this inventory, but the manopausal male doesn't mind.  He enjoys meatloaf and can eat it for breakfast, lunch and dinner.  His wife, on the other hand, craves variety.  She not only enjoys variety in food, but craves a broad array of scents.  So he purchases a Yankee candle (Lavender).

This is when the manopausal male realizes that he has come full-circle.  He is concerned with fresh scents around the house, and can no longer tolerate the odors of kid vomit, fermented teenage T-shirts, or dirty diapers.  He purchases a two-gallon caraf of Old Spice.

In time, he comes to see himself as a Domestic Expert.  He begins to give his wife advice on proper dishwashing technique and he throws a tantrum if she leaves a bowl of cereal on the dining room table.  

Eventually, as the man and woman age, their eyesight becomes so dim they no longer see the dust balls on the floor and they begin to operate under the delusion that they are living with an attractive spouse.  This period is known as "the golden years", and the man can't wait to get there so he can hire a young maid to mop the kitchen floor.   

Empty Nest

The male at mid-life begins to look forward to "the empty nest"--which is that moment in time when the last child leaves home and the cat is buried.  Naturally, the older male has mixed feelings about this new phase of life, but generally these feelings are tempered by extremes that could best be described as "elation", "gratification" and "phosphorescent joy".

Once the nest is empty, of course, the older male dreams of filling his time with new hobbies such as sex, rest, and sex.  These hobbies have, of course, been difficult to achieve during the twenty-three year supervision of children and the teenage inquires at the bedroom door such as, "Can you tone it down?" or "What's all the ruckus about?" or "What are you two doing in there?!"

The older male feels a sense of relief when the empty nest is finally achieved, and he realizes that he only has a few good months remaining in his life.  He will soon be dead, which is the same as being a eunuch, and he wants to get on with it post-haste.  Naturally, this fills him with a sense of urgency and, in the first few weeks of the empty nest period, he may go nuts.  Honeymoon nuts!  His wife will want to move out.

However, as the empty nest period progresses, the older male will settle into his usual boring self and his life will return to normalcy.  He will begin working long hours once again and his menopausal wife will remind him, from time to time, that they should at least check in with their grown children by phone.  The older male will, of course, ask, "What children?"

The wife will, at this point, produce photographs from her purse, weep for the lost ones, and ask, "Where did it all go?"

The male will point to his expanding waistline, clutch at the rumbling in his gut, and return to the kitchen to fix himself another bologna sandwich while his wife mourns.  Later, he will remind her that they are, in fact, alone in the house and that the cat is buried in the yard and that there is nothing to stop them from watching two hours of nude Jeopardy.  The male will also offer to remove his pants while he cooks dinner and will remind his wife that he is willing to perform a dance to any Josh Groban tune.

Later in the evening, after the older male and his wife have worked an additional six hours at home, they will realize that it is past midnight and they  must rise at five a.m.  They have come full circle and returned to their old habits.  They have both forgotten that the cat is dead.

And so they decide to sleep together in the empty nest.  But the only feathers are the ones inside their pillows.  And these are not getting ruffled. 



 

Recipe For Success

After the older male and his wife have surpassed the silver anniversary mark, there are many who begin asking, "What's your secret?"  These unsuspecting folks naturally make the assumption that there is a recipe for marital success and that, if followed, they could achieve such longevity as well.

This, of course, is a myth . . . much like Sasquatch or an effective Congress, and intelligent couples realize that longevity is produced only through proper nutrition and regular check-ups with the proctologist.  Furthermore, recipes for success do vary, with some long-standing couples living several states apart and conversing over Skype, while other successful couples live under the same roof and purchase sofas.

The manopausal male, however, always points to his wife as the secret of his success and mentions her often at poker games.  He will note that his wife can still dance and that, on certain occasions, she will also cook meatloaf.  These small affirmations are essential to a successful marriage, and as the male ages, he stuff his quiver full of them.

The wife, also, will follow suit and note that her husband is the same man she married decades before.  Sure, he may have lost most of his hair and his libido has slipped to the granny cog, but overall he's adequate.  He is walking erect most days and has not yet succumbed to an Advil addiction.  He still kisses her on anniversaries and weekends.

In essence, the successful marriage is built on waning eyesight and the inability of either spouse to inspect the package of goods they are currently living with.  The older mind plays tricks on reality, and the most successful couples believe that they are living on the set of Leave it to Beaver.  Some older couples no longer talk to each other--which actually helps--and in time they settle in to watching 14-hours of television a day and asking, "Did you say something?" 

Once the hearing goes, these successful couples press on toward the golden anniversary, or death, whichever comes first, and they begin to think about their estate planning.  In time, most couples will realize that they have no estate to plan and can find ultimate relaxation at a place like Shady Grove or Slippery Pines.

Later, of course, God will want to know, "What was your secret?"

Fortunately, the older loving couple has an eternity to figure out the answer.   

Anniversary Analysis

When it comes to wedding anniversaries, the older male can often benefit from psychoanalysis.  In these sessions, for example, he learns that everything is his mother's fault and the therapist can suggest many other coping mechanisms that can help him transfer the remaining blame to his wife.  In essence, he discovers that he would be much better suited to living in a cave as a savage, and that evening he asks his wife to consider moving to a hut, preferably one that is in a pizza delivery zone.

A wedding anniversary is a reminder that men and women are, in many respects, of differing species.  While the man, as primate, is suited for utilitarian purposes such as cleaning a carburetor with a grease-soaked rag, the female seems more suited to wearing beautiful leopard-skin attire and selecting home decor.  Men are hunters.  Women are nesters. 

Few men hunt today because they would shoot their eyes out.  And so, in order to make due and give themselves the experience of hunting game, they work at Radio Shack and attempt the far more difficult work of selling out-dated technology to senior citizens.  This is also why so many younger men are electrocuted trying to operate police scanners.

Wedding anniversaries are, of course, the vestige of a by-gone era in which people used to stay married until their teeth fell out.  Many marriages of eras past ended in hangings instead of divorce, and today men cope with these longer marriages by attending football games and lusting after June Cleaver.

Psychoanalysis helps the older male by allowing him to explore his mind.  Here he discovers that he has already lost it . . . and so he compensates by eating bags of potato chips and watching Dragnet reruns.  And as the older menopausal woman continues to change, the older man sleeps on his side of the bed, wondering when it God's name he will be allowed to cover himself in a sheet.  The nights are cold, but according to his mate, they are living in an oven that is hot enough to roast a fifty pound turkey.

The latter anniversaries of a marriage can be analyzed in a variety of ways, and the older male picks one or two of these theories and learns to live in it.  One theory, of course, is that he is still in love . . . and this is why he takes his wife to dinner and attempts, afterwards, to initiate a sexual encounter with phrases like, "Would you like desert?" or "Mind if I sit naked on the couch and watch The Big Bang Theory?"

Another theory is simply this:  that no other woman would have him and this is the best it's going to get.  He learns to live with the latter.  And he realizes he will be writing blogs until he dies.