Hop On Pop

In his advancing stage of life, a man can often feel like nothing more than a checkbook.  This is especially true if he is financing his children's college educations--expenses which have now skyrocketed into the stratosphere beyond his reach.  This, coupled with the myriad demands of the daily grind, can often add up to feelings of desperation and depression.  So, for all the men out there who feel they are getting stepped on, how about taking some solace from Dr. Seuss?  Or, in lieu of him, perhaps a bit of my parody?  (I don't mean any of this, but it's therapeutic to have a laugh at one's life from time to time and to remember that neither financial relief, nor death, is far off.)

Hop on Pop

The bills keep coming.
They won't stop.
Everybody
Hops on Pop.

The wife likes spending.
Loves to shop.
But she never
Hops on Pop.

The college calls.
They want a drop.
I write a check
They hop on Pop.

The teenage son
Thinks he's Aesop.
Believes he's wiser
Than his Pop.

The daughter's wedding,
The cake top,
And all expenses
Hop on Pop.

Daddy feels
Like a bellhop
Taking orders.
But he's Pop.

Sometimes he cooks
The evening slop
So each complaint
Can hop on Pop.

Daddy cleans.
He'll even mop.
But there's still dirt
That hops on Pop.

The politicians
And their crop
Have a solution:
Hop on Pop.

Sometimes he dreams
He'd like to swap
His life insurance
Cash for Pop.

But life keeps coming
It won't stop.
Everybody!
Hop on Pop!

Sag

As a man ages, he hopes and prays that he won't develop man-boobs.  That's part-and-parcel of the reason why I get to the gym most mornings and press iron--up, down, up, down--against my chest.  Whatever else may happen, I don't want any sagging in that area.  I want to keep my pecs.

Lord knows there are other parts of the body heading south, however.  Amazing, this force of gravity and what it does to the human body over time.  But men don't want to watch this migration while it's happening.

When I was in high school I measured in at a full six feet, two inches in height.  Now I'm a bit taller than six feet, one inch.  Something has happened during the past thirty-five years and I've lost a part of me.  I keep looking for this lost inch under furniture and in the trunk of the car, but I've not found hide nor hair of me yet.

One of the sad features of manopause, of course, is the sag.  A guy can begin to look like a mouldy set of drapes in no time flat and nothing short of death seems to help.  Once, for a few weeks last summer, I even applied some of my wife's Oil of Olay, but all I got out of the deal were a few cat-calls from construction workers and fewer kisses from my wife.  She couldn't figure out why I was starting to look like Raquel Welch and smell like Sophia Loren.  I reverted back to my usual splash of Aqua Velva aftershave . . . and since I only shave every 2-3 days, I had to rely upon my natural man-scent and tweak it with the faint traces of hamburger and bacon grease that had seeped into my pores.

It is also a depressing turn of events when a man's wife says something like, "You know, you really ought to wear an undershirt if you are going out in public" or "I'm not going to be seen with you looking like that" or "Aren't you shorter than you used to be?"

All of these are indications of the onset of manopause.  And I'm not even going to mention some of the other features.  (See dictionary definition for Depression and Downunder.)

A man can, of course, live in denial.  Many do.  But it is best to face these sagging realities head-on and come to the grateful conclusion that (at the very least) he has a wife who is sagging also.  They can sag together.  And sometimes they can meet in the middle. 

Back Me Up

Evidently a man, as he ages, can no longer anticipate the tell-tale signs of pain.  He might be, for example, doing some menial task liking screwing in a light bulb when he suddenly becomes aware of a peculiar sensation in the knee, only to awaken in the morning unable to walk without pain.  Or perhaps he will be, say . . . eating an orange, when suddenly he chokes on a minuscule sliver of pulp and falls into a delirium of coughing.  Or he might even be at the gym, having completed several sets of deadlifts when, as he stands up to leave the establishment, his back suddenly seizes and emits a loud pop--like someone firing a canon over the port bough--and he finds himself hunched over, nearly crawling across the parking lot toward his car, wondering how he will start the engine and move the shift lever into drive. And to top it, he has left his keys behind in the gym and must return to retrieve them, further heightening the out-of-body sensation that comes from living inside a body that sounds, increasingly, like a rusted-out Model T that is badly in need of grease.

Of course, I'm sure no one else had any of these experiences this week except me.  Other manopausal males have regular check-ups and eat aspirin like candy; they eat asparagus; their bodies stay lubricated and limber with hot and regular sexual activity.

Me?  I drink protein shakes and feast on donuts with some regularity.  I read books in the shower and then complain when my pages are soaked.

A man can't be too careful as he ages.  Unlike women who, after menopause, can throw caution to the wind and purchase an entirely new wardrobe each year, a man must guard his favorite trove of underwear with ever-increasing vigilance.  He must learn the advantages of cold showers--which also save on utility costs and prolong the life of his water heater.  He must take solace in his four hours of sleep and his twelve cups of daily coffee.

For better or worse, he is prepared to die first.  He hopes he does.  His supply of Icy Hot will only hold out for so many years, and he knows there is a better, pain-free world out there somewhere.    

Dressed Up And No Place to Go

I'm always willing to dress for dinner.  I've got the suits to swing it: black, navy blue, gray, beige, khaki, various pin-striped and solids, traditional and Italian cut.  I'm willing to wear any of these suits to Wendy's, McDonald's, even White Castle.  My wife knows this. 

We rarely dress for dinner, however.  Never at home.  And we rarely go out.  When we do, my wife wants me, generally, to dress down.  But I've got the suits.  Why can't I wear the suits?  Wendy's could use a little class, I think.  And when I wear my suit to McDonald's, I always want fries with that.

Men, for the most part, aren't dressers.  Men are utilitarian creatures.  We put on a T-shirt in the morning (probably one we've worn for the past week without washing it) and we work in this shirt all day, cutting wood with a chainsaw, perhaps, or painting the house with a one-inch brush.  And then, after a full day of sweating in the elements, the wife wants to go out to dinner.  We don't worry about changing clothes.  We know that a few spritzes of after-shave can cover a week's worth of aroma.  Or, at least, we don't notice any difference in our scent.  When food is involved, we are ready at a moment's notice.  Why change clothes?

But as men get older, they don't work as long.  They can't.  Most of their energies are expended in the form of getting out of bed and navigating stairs without falling.  Small things, like frying an egg, wears them to a frazzle.  Laundry is an all-day activity that requires an enormous expenditure of concentration and could even cause a stroke.  Padding to the refrigerator could cause serious internal damage to the liver or blow out a knee.

Manopause men don't have T-shirts that fit.  They are willing to dress for dinner.

Women, on the other hand, want to be comfortable as they get older.  The manopause woman is into loose fitting sweat suits and Met-Life windbreakers.  She dresses in layers in case she has a hot flash when she's ordering from the value menu at Wendys.  That way she can strip in public, and she never wants fries with that.

For these reasons and more, the manopause male is at a serious advantage over the older woman when it comes to dressing up.  He's got the suits to swing it.  The wife has clothes that no longer fit due to swelling and water retention.  She's losing eggs but gaining weight.  The man is gaining closet space for the first time in his life.

I'm willing to dress for dinner.  When my wife is finished with her next hot flash, she's willing to go out.  I'm taking her to Long John Silvers.  I'll be ordering chicken.

Breakfast of Champions

As a man ages he discovers that his appetites change.  In his younger days he drank a cup of coffee before bolting to the office, but now that he requires fewer calories to function he has an insatiable pull for bacon and eggs.  This change may have something to do with the fact that his wife's egg production is drawing to a close and he feels the urge to keep the incubation process forging ahead.  Or it could be due to his station of life, when he throws caution to the wind and realizes that eggs aren't all they're cracked up to be.  They might even be good for him.

I only know I've dramatically increased my egg consumption in the past year.  A few weeks ago, I even had three breakfasts in one morning.  First, I had coffee and boiled eggs at home before heading off to the gym to groan under tons of weight and torture my arthritic shoulders, and then off to a second breakfast and book study where I had oatmeal and coffee.  An hour later (and sticking to the same booth in the same restaurant) I met a friend for a third breakfast and a plate of three scrambled with bacon.

Most men have stories to tell about ancient grandfathers who daily consumed massive breakfasts consisting of eggs, bacon, biscuits, pancakes, and sausage gravy. And look, we say, these men lived to be a hundred! That's true, but they probably burned those calories before 9 a.m. and rose at 4 a.m. to eat that first meal.

That's one of the reasons I rise early.  Better to get a jump on the calorie burn.  But an hour on the stairmaster at 5 a.m. is superior to my grandfather's horse-and-buggy mornings as I see it.  I'll eat all the eggs I want.  And when I was younger, I used to crack 'em and swallow 'em whole . . . raw.  Believe me, eggs go down easy uncooked. But with the profusion of salmonella, not a good idea any more, fellas.  

What a breakfast brings to an older man is an enjoyment of life.  Especially if there is conversation.  Maybe even love.

Most Saturday mornings my wife and I rise as early as our energies will allow.  We brew coffee, fix eggs, and spend time together reviewing the week and dreaming dreams before the children even attempt to get out of bed.  A breakfast I cherish every week.  Championship caliber.  And she doesn't mind my egg consumption.  She knows I'm going through manopause. 

Being Daddy

A man knows he's over the hill when his daughter begins calling him Daddy.  Especially if his daughter is twenty-two and doesn't live in Alabama.

During my daughter's lifetime I've run the full gamut from diaper-changer, to physician of scraped knees, to homework helper, to teen counselor, to keeper-of-the-checkbook.  Now I'm Daddy again.  

I bought the title.  Paid for it in full.  After writing checks to cover four years of higher education (along with excursions to Europe and all points around the U.S. of A.) the title is mine.  I should have a wide belt with a big brass belt buckle that says, "World Champion Daddy".

A man doesn't need the accolades, though.  Not a real man.  Daddy is enough.  After all, she is still my little girl and sometimes, when I ask nicely, she will bring me a can of salted nuts and a beer while I'm watching reruns of Gomer Pyle.  Now that she's post-21, I can ask.  Sometimes she will also make a run to the pharmacy to buy more lineament for my back or get me a new bottle of pills (doesn't matter which kind).  That's my girl!

I like having an older daughter with whom I can discuss great literature.  We like the same books and sometimes I get to amaze her with my depth of knowledge about old farts like Homer or Shakespeare or John Updike.  She thinks I am wise.  And since she is not married yet, I can still talk to her about marriage and point out how unfair it is that I am the one who does most of the cooking and cleaning and toilet scraping and it would be a great thing if she would give her future husband a break.  I also invite her to talk some sense into her mother and point out that sex was intended to be one of God's great gifts and that the good Lord intended for this gift to be utilized far more frequently than twice a year in a marital relationship.  That, and her mother should stop making fun of my urination frequency and asking questions about my marble-sized prostate. I'm a little sensitive.

But I really don't want to talk about it.

All I can do is thank my daughter for listening.

Man Cave

Back in the 1990's a movement was afoot among men who were looking to create a "man cave" in the home.  This cave was often a section of the garage (complete with woodworking tools or car-care products), a "den", or a home theatre room.  The idea was that men needed a place to unwind, to trip back and decompress after a long day at work, or to keep busy on the weekends.

It's intersting that older men, in particular, usually end up creating some type of man cave for themselves.  It is also a space (usually) that women will find off-limits or disinteresting.

Me?  I've never been able to create a man cave in my life.  About the time I set up my home library and litter the floor with books, or create a home office where I can write uninterrupted, my wife enters the picture and tells me to tidy it up or she's throwing out the lot.  I've lost many valuable resources in this manner over the years.

I'm convinced that my wife has thrown away some of my best writing.  I know that she's pitched at least one best-selling novel (don't ask me which one, but it was a real humdinger) and I've been interrupted mid-sentence so many times and my perfect train-of-thought divested of so many incredible insights, my wife has cost us at least a $ million in lost writing revenues.  Oh, if only she'd kept her big nose out of my man cave and left me to my creative juices.  The best writing of my life has all been lost to interruptions.

Still, a man cave is a nice treat for an older guy who doesn't get out much anymore.  (Heck, I never got out much, are you kidding?)  In a man cave a fellow can hang newspaper clippings and create huge stacks of magazines and pile underwear up to the ceiling and sit Indian-style on the floor and clip his toenails into the carpeting.  He can peel down to his skivies and change the oil in the car on a hot summer afternoon without being interrupted with some inane question like, "What are you doing out there?"  In the man cave a guy can be his own person and blossom into the full manifestation of his boredom.  And if he lives in the country, he can just take a few steps away from the man cave and pee in the woods.  His wife won't like it, but a man still has to mark his territory.  He knows that snow-covered ground works best for lettering, and O's and X's are really fun.

One of these days I'm going to sit down with my son and explain the facts of life to him.  Not the biological facts (he already knows that junk) but the true facts about how life really works and what he will need to know in order to survive in this world. 

He won't believe me.  Young kids never do.  But one of these days he'll grow up and realize that he will need a space of his own.  His space won't be in my basement anymore, however.  As a father lives for the day when he can reclaim the pool table from his progeny and, at last, shoot a game of 8-ball in the nude.

Night Moves

Men, in particular, experience a strong proclivity for the mid-life move.  This has become known in certain circles as the "mid-life crisis", but even a casual observer can attest to the pull.  It usually begins in a man's early forties and does not subside until he's too old to do anything about it. 

A recent survey of the American male revealed that most men (post age 18) are single, and that most men in America have experienced at least one career change as well as a second-go-round at marriage.

For these reasons and more I have always felt like an outsider in the locker room.  I've essentially been working the same job since I was twenty years old, and for better or worse, I've stayed with the same pigeon-toed woman for twenty-seven years . . . and nearly forty, if I count back to the years when we started dating in high school at age fourteen.

During these years, however, there have been times when I've wanted to chuck my work, or chuck my wife, or chuck the family . . . it's only natural for a man to want to chuck something.  Baby, I was born to run (as Bruce Springsteen used to sing).  But all change comes at a price.

Women have an advantage over men when it comes to navigating the mid-life crisis.  (Though women are, I'm afraid, more vulnerable to financial and family annihilation in the event of change.)  Women have, however, an ample supply of books, movies, magazines, and friends to help them cope . . . but men?  All we have is Homer Simpson and a plethora of movies that poke fun at the male predicament.  Men at mid-life are easy fodder, and all of us eventually become ample, rotund targets for satirization.  My biggest target of satire is myself, but noting the flaws in other men is also an easy task . . . especially if these men happen to be politicians.

That's why I'm writing this blog.  Men need help.  We need to study over our manopause and weep more openly and get in touch with our feelings and admit that we've become overweight and we don't know how to stop eating donuts or desiring change.  We need to treat our dying pets with more empathy and ask our children (who are usually older themselves) if they would be willing to drink skim milk.  

Manopause is a real issue in America and I think we should address it.  In the meantime, don't quit your job or file for divorce or buy that BMW until you've done the heavier work of self-analysis.  Don't make a move until you understand that little green man inside.

Somebody in there is trying to tell you something. 

The Plight of the Most Interesting Man

If anyone has impacted the status of the older male of late, it has to be the Dos Equis man.  Or, as he is known in his commercials, "the most interesting man in the world."

Now here's a guy with charm, intelligence, and beer.  And despite the fact that he's gray, he's still getting women to take notice. 

This is pure fantasy, of course.  No old fart actually kayaks out of an airplane, plays cricket in the Australian outback, or lives with a cougar (not that kind, anyway!).  The marketeers are having a heyday with this chap.  My hunch is that many older men are drinking more because of him, but all they are getting is bigger bellies.

The plight of the older man can't be solved with alcohol consumption.  Beer might chase his depression with a shot of opportunity, but in the end he's back to square one and living in the same old hovel with his pigeon-toed wife. 

Still, we should thank the most interesting man in the world for making our lives, well . . . more interesting.  We begin to think: perhaps women do see something in us that still causes a stirring of the loins or a welcoming smile; perhaps we should retrieve the baseball cleats from the garage and make a run around the bases, or at least try to get to third base for a triple; perhaps we've still got a little more zip in the zipper.

Naaahhh!  You'll pull a hammie!  Better sit this one out and go back to being the boring stooges God created us to be.  Intersting just isn't enough once you hit manopause.  As the fellow in the commercial implies (it's all sub-text):  you'd better have money! 

Staying thirsty is only half the battle.

As Young As You Feel

The other night my wife and I were talking.  We don't usually engage in this pasttime of discussion, but since she wouldn't participate in other more aerobic activities, I settled for words.  We were talking about the many changes we have embraced, or will embrace, in just one year:  my wife completing another degree, my wife settling into yet another leadership job, my daughter becoming a student teacher, my daughter's college graduation, my son's high school graduation, my daughter's impending wedding.

I pointed out that I was the only stable person in the family.  She didn't disagree.

We also wondered how the other was feeling through these changes. At one juncture I used the cliche: "We're as young as we feel."

But how young is that?

Strange, but in terms of my intellect and outlook on life, I feel young.  Very young.  Like a virgin, touched for the very first time.

As far as the physical, I like to quote Yogi Berra and say that "I'm in very good shape for the shape I'm in."  I'm no longer prime cut, but at fifty-one I'm still able to navigate the heavy paces of a gym workout on most days, and I'm still capable of hiking miles at a time or running my heart rate up to 160+ on the stairmaster.  The last time I took a "real age" stress test I came in well under the fifty-year mark and in some categories showed signs of still being in my thirties.  But heck, what do scientists know?

I'm just thankful that I can still do what I do even though I have shoulder pain, back pain, and at times, a pain in the butt.  I've had no major health concerns, never broken a bone, and expect to be able to make love well into my nineties.  With whom, I can't say.

There are reasons for the older male to feel good about life.  And one of these is the belief that nothing bad ever lasts, and there are still new ventures to embrace.  It's a great thing when menopause and manopause can work together on some of these dreams.   

Honey Do

A married man always wonders:  How does she have the time to create all of these jobs?  There's the broken toilet.  The cracked window.  The paint touch-ups.  The closets.  The cars.  The appliances.  The floors.  The marketing.  The weekly visits with Aunt Martha.

In time a man's honey-do list becomes his ball and chain.  He's dragging weight, moaning under heavy iron, and every time he turns around she's there with the shotgun yelling, "Where do you think you're going?" He could run (and many do).  But he won't get far.  She'll find him.  And if he thinks he's going to find a younger woman who won't have a list of her own, he's sorely mistaken.  All women have lists. Some lists are just longer than others.  And while some women only threaten, others pull the trigger from time-to-time. 

I did try to run from the list earlier in life.  I would try to make a break for it on Saturday mornings, or on those evenings when I knew she wouldn't be in the mood for the likes of me, but inevitably I'd feel the tug of the chain and come crawling back like a hound dog resolved to having the ticks plucked out of his hide. 

At my age I'm now like the ghost of Jacob Marley.  I have a ponderous chain of immense proportions wound round my ankles.  All I can do is warn other unsuspecting man-souls about the impending doom of the honey-do list.

A man may not see it.  But it's always there.  And if he forgets, he shouldn't worry.  She'll remind him.  "When are you going to fix that toilet?" 

Men at Work

Unemployment is a great concern these days, and for the older man a career is a precarious thing.  Gone are the days of the gold watch and the retirement speech, but few things hold a man so firmly to terra firma as a job.

The manopause male has, however, seen his share of dirt and has some clearly defined notions of what work is and what it means.  In essence, he's convinced that work is not his means, but a means to other ends.

One of my friends, a guy who has enjoyed a long career as an accountant and who has balanced his share of funds in both corporate and personal accounts, at last came to the resolution after thirty years of labor that he could find fulfilment in just about any work . . . so long as he could work long enough or hard enough to provide for his wife and children (who are now, by the way, independent and vacated of the house).  They way he sees it, he could dig ditches and make a go of it as long as his back held out.

I feel much the same.

Fortunately I've worked enough of a variety of jobs and settings early in life to know that I'm as much at home with a chain saw as I am a sermon; I could clean bathrooms and floors, I could paint houses, I could mow yards or work in stockrooms or cook donuts in a tepid back room of a greasy-spoon diner and find enough fulfilment in the paycheck and in coming home to write stories and smooch the wife. Life is in the perspective and in the satisfaction of a job well-done.  Pay is nice (and who doesn't appreciate it?), but old men have the advantage of knowing that life is a vanity.

When a man comes to this realization he's either in his prime or past it.  He might even decide that he doesn't have a life and should have a little fun before he packs his bags for the last time.

There is, of course, much work to be done.  And the guy in full-blown manopause doesn't have enough time to do it all.  Working for his wife is enough.  She is, after all, his real boss.   

The Cult of Superman

Even a cursory glance at the newstand magazines or the book titles on Amazon will reveal that women are far more knowledgeable about the lilt and swag of ageing than men are.  The magazine article dealing with the subtle nuances of menopause is commonplace.  Book titles are plentiful.  There are even morning talk shows and medical programs centered on guiding women through their menopause experience.

Not so with men.

The only example men have in our culture is Superman.  And he's much older than he used to be.  Most of his time is now spent in the Fortress of Solitude.

This cult of Superman actually began after WWII, when Charles Atlas began gracing the back pages of comic books promising to build muscles in exchange for $9.95 plus postage and handling.  Atlas was old, even then, and the idea that a guy could keep a woman happy by beating up on weaklings was commonplace.  In time, Superman (and then Arnold) assumed leadership of the cult.  It still lives.

But manopause awakens the male to some harsh realities.  Among them: he ain't Superman any more and whatever strength, chutzpah, or charisma he possessed in his younger days (probably none to begin with) has now been carried off on the winds of his flatulence.  There are aches, pains and maladies of wide assortment, but when one is living in the cult of Superman these difficulties must be hidden underneath a bullet-proof suit (or perhaps slick business attire).  Look around.  These idiots are everywhere.

I am currently doing battle with this cult, waging conflicts on a variety of fronts . . . including long and harsh discussions with my father who is convinced that he can still work and be a man-about-town despite the fact that he can no longer walk.  In time, I will join him in the Fortress of Solitude, but for now I must work to convince him that he is in full-blown manopause and should, at last, find his rest in a comfortable recliner and a bowl of circus peanuts.

But this is tough, especially coming from a man who can no longer lift his left arm without experiencing excruciating pain and who takes fish oil daily as a means of countering his donut intake.  Last week, when I spent an hour on the stairmaster and burned 1000 calories in one-fell-swoop, I could scarcely walk out of the gym.

When a guy is going through manopause it isn't pretty.  He won't find any books or magazine articles to help him through his predicament.  He'll only have the love of his good wife, his meaningful work, and occassionally a rush of needs that will propel him into a phone booth for a quick change.

He just needs to remember to take off his diaper first . . . and to recall that the "S" on his gray-haired chest doesn't stand for Superman anymore.        

Gandolph the Gray

True story:  a few months ago I was making visits in a retirement home when an older woman reached out from her walker, grabbed hold of me in the hallway with a palsied hand and said, "You know, that gray hair makes you look soooo sexy and distinguished."

This line, of course, is the only pick-up line women have developed in two million years of human evolution.  Unlike men (who have developed a plethora of pick-up lines) women of every age try to make a man feel sexy by telling him he looks "distinguished."  This is the reason men wear suits and ties (you think we actually want to wear that Italian crap?). It is also the reason men get jobs or drive sports cars or smoke cigars.  Men want women to think they look distinguished and can still drive up the fairway with a three-wood. 

I asked my wife about this while I was trimming the gray hairs out of my nostrils one evening.

"You don't look distinguished," she told me.  "You look disgusting."

I couldn't argue.  Of late I've been looking more like Gandolph the Gray than Mr. Frodo.  It's tough to debunk the point with a woman when flecks of gray turn to salt and pepper, and salt and pepper turns, at last, into snow.  When a man enters full-blown into manopause, he should be thankful that any woman finds him attractive, and if that woman happens to be his wife, he'd better hang onto her like grim death . . . which, by the way, is not far off either!

Still, I'm not sure why men would go in for hair care products like Grecian Formula or Only for Men.  We expect women to dye the gray in their hair.  But for a man to dye his hair . . . this is unsettling.  It's like false advertising.  That, or a man is trying to convince himself that he is still young and distinguished looking.

But listen, guys, let's just stick to disgusting.  It's a whole lot easier.  And it's honest, too. 

What is MANOPAUSE?

Many people are going to ask:  what, exactly, is manopause?  And why are you writing about it?

A bit of background . . . .

When my wife began going through "the change", more commonly known as menopause, I wanted to be the type of supportive husband who could understand her many moods, her tantrums, her hot flashes (not the kind of hots you are hoping for, Jimmy). I wanted to share this experience with her, truly demonstrate that I was the kind of husband who could carry this tremendous hormonal load and maintain a bucketful of empathy and understanding.

But the fact is, I'm failing miserably.  Sure, I've read all the women's books: French Women Don't Get Fat; Eat, Pray, Love; heaping bowls of Gail Sheehy, Erica Jong, & Jane Fonda.  Still, I just couldn't seem to identify with menopause.

Then it hit me:  I'm going through these changes with her.  I'm changing too.  I'm going through manopause! 

So, in case you are a mid-life male yourself (or a cross-dresser who is male underneath it all) or perhaps a sympathetic woman who wants to understand the male crisis a little better . . . I hope this blog about manopause will prove helpful.  I'll discuss hormones (testosterone), experiences, yearnings, lost dreams, evaporated hopes, marriage, parenting, and in short, try to offer men a reason for living.  And while I'm at it, I may also talk myself into a reason for living, too.

Manopause is, as the name implies, a male experience.  And the more I read about this, the more I am convinced it does exist--despite the protestations of the medical establishment and women in general.  Post-50, a man begins to experience an array of changes and losses.  Most men, by 50, are also "post" mid-life crisis:  that all-too-familiar country of changing careers, changing wives, and the search for meaning which seems to affect the bulk of American men.

My hope is that I can bring a little sanity into the manopause world, and offer insights from the vantage point of a man who has had one career, one wife, two kids, two cars, and no affairs.  And if you think that sounds boring, think again.  Think REALLY boring.

But that's what this blog is about: the musings of one boring male who is still navigating his own manopause and who is willing to write what is real, personal, and honest.  

I'll see you tomorrow . . . same man time, same man channel.  But in the meantime, please excuse me . . . I've got to take another Alieve.