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.