Stages of a Man's Life

A man experiences three stages of adulthood.  These stages are well-documented in back issues of Better Homes & Gardens and have a profound impact on the ageing process.  Although these stages are known by different names in various cultures (The Tres Dingos, for example, in Latin cultures), they can be loosely defined as follows:

Minipause:  the early stage of a man's life, commonly known as youth, when everything is very small and tight-fitting, and a man can get by with wearing his pants down around his ankles and still keep a job.  This phase is commonly defined by lower pay, school debt, and an insatiable urge for Gatorade.  During this phase the man is also searching the internet for a suitable mate and is infatuated with car engines and all-you-can-eat buffets.  The phase ends abruptly when the man marries or abandons spicy tacos in favor of Pepto Bismol. 

Moneypause:  this mid-life stage is defined by family and income concerns and can last anywhere from five to fifty-five years. During this phase the man is working upwards of 125 hours a week, including weekends and holidays, and earns an average of 25-cents an hour.  This, the three of the longest phases, is the most depressing, although some men attempt to compensate for this blue period by coaching Little League baseball or pretending that they have a sex life.  If a marriage is going to fall apart, it is usually during this phase, but a woman can usually tell if the man is unhappy if he says something like, "Have you seen my car keys?" or "Chicken again?  Really?" or "I want a divorce."  Women can compensate for the man during this phase by earning twice his salary or by keeping a fully-stocked pantry and plenty of beer.

Manopause:  This final stage of a man's life can be enjoyable if his wife is still hot or if the mortgage has been burned.  Manopause is defined by an ability to enjoy the simple pleasures of life, such as a twenty-four ounce T-bone steak, a magazine subscription, or a new package of underwear.  Basically the man hibernates on the couch during this period and has continued difficulty walking to the refrigerator to retrieve a carrot stick.  His wife, if he has trained her well, waits on him hand-and-foot and frequently bakes cookies and calls him "sugar", "sweetheart" or "you gorgeous stud-muffin."  The man, of course, can always find energy enough for a game of golf, but essentially he is content to stay in the house and wait for death.  If he lives long enough, he may enter a fourth stage of life--Mortipause--but this is rare, and a stage reserved only for those men who live past 100 and can still do the Tango with a twenty-year old wife who has married him for his vast estate (see "politicians" or "TV personalities").

Naturally, this is only a guide, and results may vary from man to man.  If you feel that you don't fit into any of these stages, don't despair.  Wait a few years and reassess.  Eventually things will fall into place and you'll have your first prostate exam.  This will clear out the cobwebs.    

What Makes a Man Cry?

Men, as they age, may find themselves crying for no particular reason.  A man may cry, for example, during the seventh game of the World Series, or, if he is sitting in the stands, because he was forced to pay $9.95 for a week-old wiener.  A man may also cry over the results of his cholesterol count, or may weep when he watches the movie, Rudy.  And he may also cry at weddings.  He is permitted this luxury if his daughter is getting married.

A man's tear ducts are designed much differently than a woman's, however, as his tear ducts are connected to his gut.  And, if a man is drinking while he weeps, he may sometimes be able to get milk to come out of his nose.  This looks funny, of course, but on a scale of 1-10 the "milk-out-of-the-nose" trick is a 6+ and is a good trick to keep on hand for dinner parties.

Men are not designed to cry easily.  In fact, most men can lose four fingers in a band saw and still smile about it.  Men can also watch movies like Beaches and Jerry McGuire, but can also smirk at "wind beneath my wings" and "you had me at hello" and yet provide the appropriate sympathy if he is cuddling with his wife when she turns to him and says, "That's how I feel about us!"

A real man, however, is weak on the day of his daughter's wedding.  He is permitted this small glitch, this chink in his armor, and is allowed to weep openly and carry a small white hanky in his pocket.  By using the hanky he also earns points with his wife and, afterwards, can win valuable prize packages.

An older man may also cry at a wedding because he realizes he has an anniversary of his own.  It is approaching rapidly and he has not purchased a card or made anniversary plans and doesn't intend to.  He is broke from having purchased twenty-two pounds of mixed nuts and a new pair of black loafers (with tassels) and the thought of booking a hotel reservation on Orbitz to entertain an old woman for a weekend just isn't in his emotional arsenal.  He can cry at the wedding when he realizes that his daughter is a woman, but he cannot handle the thought of being married to an old woman.

Eventually, the older male settles into his life as a father-in-law and only weeps at holidays, or when he watches Hoosiers and Jimmy hits that last-second shot to win the championship and he knows Gene Hackman is gonna get that young teacher in the sack before the credits roll. 

Yes, the older male does cry.  He just picks his spots.

 

Can Dads Dance?

Photo:  Becky & Todd before Prom, 1978.

A few days ago it hit me:  I'm going to have to dance with my daughter at her wedding on Saturday.

Of course, I'm no stranger to the dance floor.  I was boogie-ing with the best of 'em back in the late 1970s and I had Saturday Night Fever long before the movie premiered. My voice was also a falsetto, like Barry Gibbs, and I loved the idea of Becky being more than a woman to me.  Becky knows this.  She went to the prom with me our junior year of high school (spring of 1978) and I ripped up the floor.  I also ripped out my white pants (which had taken on a yellowed tinge from so much nervous sweat).  This is why I spent most of my time at the prom watching a Don Knotts film, thinking my friends would make fun of me, assuming I had peed my pants when, in fact, I simply had over-active glands.

Naturally, the first thing my mother wanted to know when I got home was:  "Did you dance with Becky?"  Her second question was:  "Why did you pee your pants?"

This is something, however, that a seventeen-year-old male cannot explain to a mother's satisfaction.

I reminded my mother that, in addition to being president of the high school letterman's club and a solid "C-minus" student, I knew how to treat a girl to a really good time.  "There's more to the prom than dancing," I reminded my mother as I reached for a jug of Ajax and began scrubbing the crotch on my rental.  "There are also the intangibles: such as friendship, respect, athletics, honor, C-minus academics, and a really good lime punch with those little strawberries floating on top."

"You should marry that girl," mom told me.  "I like that Becky.  She's a good cheerleader, probably a virgin, and I don't think she'd let you get fresh with her.  In fact, I don't think she'd let you touch her . . . even after twenty years of marriage.  You have to respect a girl with such high standards for herself and such low expectations in men."

From that moment on I took mom's advice to heart and knew Becky was the girl for me.  If mom liked her, there must be something wrong with Becky, and I was certain that, if I worked hard enough, I would discover Becky's trashy side.

Naturally, I married Becky in order to find out.  (But this occurred after years of rejection from hundreds of other women who were not afraid to dance cheek-to-cheek with a pee stain.)

Now here we are--two old people on the cusp of our daughter's wedding--and my wife is once again giving me dancing tips.  She refuses to allow the showing of a Don Knotts film at the wedding reception.  I am not allowed to have a good time.  I cannot wear a white tux.  And she insists I double up on absorbent underwear.

"Is Dad a good dancer?" my daughter keeps asking my wife.  "Has he ever, even once, given you a good dipping?"

"Sweetheart," Becky tells her, "he's going to embarrass the stuffing out of you."

My wife may be correct.  But then again, I'll be wearing a dark tux.  That alone should make me look good on the dance floor.  And I've been practicing my dips.  God knows, I haven't dropped a girl yet.

Understanding Your Colonoscopy

Eventually the older male succumbs to doctor's orders and makes an appointment for his first colonoscopy.  He doesn't understand the need for it, obviously, and there can be a copious amount of anxiety and dread surrounding the procedure.  But understanding the importance of the colonoscopy is the first step.  And if a man can wrap his mind around this, he can eventually have some fun with the procedure.

So . . . let's be clear.

The colonoscopy was invented by Hans Gastric, a German veterinarian who perfected his art on horses and large rodents.  The year was 1857, and these first medical instruments were crude in comparison to the ones used today.  The procedure, of course, was designed to make men feel at ease about their health, operating under the theory that, if a doctor could examine the insides of a man, the doctor would receive a large research grant and get published in a prestigious medical journal and eventually move to America and live in the Hamptons.

As many men point out, the preparation for a colonoscopy is actually worse than the procedure itself.  This preparation phase is awkward, as it includes a visit to the pharmacy where the patient must stand in a long line and yell out, "Hey, I'm here to cleanse my colon!"  Following this public announcement, a young pharmacist will laugh and produce the appropriate drink, whereby the man is given a choice between flavors of Lemon-Lime and Tooty-Fruity.  (Word of advice: don't take any medicine with word "Tooty" in it!)

Once the man has prepared for the procedure, he will then need to secure a ride to and from the clinic.  This is important, since the man will not want to ride with anyone who needs to stop on the way home for a hair appointment with a stylist named Wanda June.  Discussion of the route to and from the clinic is important, as the colonoscopy, for a man, is the same as having a baby. 

Men, obviously, want to know, what goes on during the procedure itself?  Well, it's not that big of a deal.  The man is usually under sedation, and during the procedure the doctors play several rounds of Euchre or, in some upscale hospitals, Bridge.  Usually the anesthetist will tell a dirty joke involving a farmer's daughter.

The man is also under sedation during this procedure, but may recall, days later, hearing the doctors scream, "Thar she blows!" or "Whatta ya make of this one, Howie?"  During the procedure the man may experience a slight sensation in his abdomen, but these vibrations are no worse than he might experience if he were to attend a Metallica concert or if he were to allow a gerbil to run free inside his deodenum.  In less than three hours the procedure is complete, the doctors record notes and deal a final hand of Pinochle, and then insert the cork.

The colonoscopy is now complete and the man can relax.  He returns home under the watchful care of his family, a small group of people who make fun of him and who keep asking, "So . . . how was it?"     

Retirement Calculator

Sooner or later the manopausal male begins to calculate when he can retire.  These calculations are based on many factors, including his general health, the beginning of the NFL season, and how many years he anticipates his wife can continue to work in order to pay utility bills and green's fees.  The manopausal male often hires a financial planner to help him work up an impressive list of facts and figures designed to confuse the hell out of him.  Financial planners can be found in the yellow pages under the heading:  Adult Services and Financial Escorts.

Many of these financial planners work the streets at night looking for clients and as a man nears retirement, he can usually pick up a planner on the cheap at a local bar. 

Manopausal males also become adept at interpreting the numbers associated with retirement.  For example, older males know what the stock market is (a casino), where it is located (someplace out east), and how it works (like Facebook).  Older males also have their favorite investments, and most males are still looking for the jars of Sacajawea dollars they buried in the back yard back in 1997.  That is why older males can frequently be seen with metal detectors on the beach.

In essence, the manopausal male calculates his total value based upon three factors:  how much life insurance money he will receive when his wife kicks the bucket; how much money he will receive when he remarries the young chick in wholesale distributing who is still raking in child support payments from her ex-husband; and the value of his baseball card collection which is stored in his mother's attic.

A shrewd financial planner can also offer help by providing several mathematical tools designed to confuse women and trick the IRS.  One of these calculations has something to do with E=mc2 and the other involves an algebraic logarithm about a chimpanzee who saves two bunches of bananas each week for forty years and ends with the question:  "How many bananas will Bonzo have when he is sixty-five?"

Retirement calculators, of course, are designed to help older men determine if they will outlive their wives, and by how much.  Determining his wife's demise is much like figuring the spread in a horse race, and many men, as they near retirement, begin calling their wives names like "Double-Ur-Money" or "Backstretch Nellie" or "Down-to-the-Wire Wanda".  Some men consult veterinarians to determine their options should their wives pull up lame.

Retirement, naturally, is a bitch . . . and most men discover that they have only saved enough money to retire for three months.  Because of this, they plan low-cost retirement trips to Acron and Buffalo and eat lots of Aldi specials such as canned Cream-of-Hominy.  Some men fall into depression and move to Florida to play shuffle-board for two weeks before they have their heart attacks. 

In the end, the manopausal male realizes that no one is responsible for his retirement except himself . . . and he begins to look for other investment vehicles such as creating his own bottled-water label or selling his wife's gold jewelry at pawn shops.

Some of these investment vehicles are completed on the sly, but if he's efficient, he should be able to attain his retirement number by the time he is eighty-seven.

Party Animal

The manopausal male is a party animal.  He dots from house to house during graduation weekend and is adept at spotting those tiny weiner hors doerves skewered on toothpicks.  He can eat three dozen of these, easy . . . and even have room for a piece of cake and a few pieces of kiwi, a fruit which offers the appearance that he is eating healthy and is concerned about his girth.

He's become a party animal through years of intense training, a regiment which began when he was twelve years old at a piano recital in which mixed nuts were served and grandparents praised him for his ability to play chopsticks.  Since that time he's attended any number of dances, wedding receptions, and a few funerals, and at each one he has been able to discover a food source.

The older male is regarded as a party expert because he can banter and boogie. He is able to relate to the party hosts and to the commoners, including the next door neighbors who only show up to swim and snack on water chestnuts.  He uses words like "fantastic", "delicious", and "bitchin'" so that people can see that he is a man of the people and that he knows a ripe melon when he bites into one.

The older male also escorts his wife in style, insisting that she wear her best gear and that she sit near him so that she can identify all of the relatives he has forgotten.  When he asks, "What's your second cousin's name again?" he expects an answer immediately and does not want to hear, "Puddin'tame".

As the older male dots from place to place he drinks lots of tea, and has to stop off at McDonalds to use the restroom between parties.  Naturally, his wife thinks she is getting fries out of the deal, but he returns with nothing.

Eventually the older male runs out of steam and passes out in a roadside ditch.  This is where commercials come from.

He refuels on white sheet cake and tells his wife how beautiful she is.

She doesn't believe a word of it, however, and eventually talks him into to buying more ice.      

The Rugby Kid

This past weekend, far away in Utah, my son's Rugby team played in a national high school tournament.  Although they had a decent season here in Indiana (and Cathedral of Indianapolis won the national tournament in Utah . . . congrats!) I learned through a series of text-messages that my son's team came in last.

Nevertheless, there's something manly about this Rugby game.  Older men like me can break an ankle or shatter a spleen just watching from the sidelines.  Sometimes we attempt to crush an empty cola can against our foreheads in order to appear macho, but all we get are indentations that make us look like a Cro-Magnon on a bad-hair day.

A few weeks back I penned this poem about Rugby.  Makes me feel young.  But I pulled a hammie when I wrote it.

Home From Rugby Practice

My son says he played well
And does not need stitches
In the ear that is dangling
By a thread and beat to hell.

He grit of eighteen years
Has turned him into man
And left him bruised and
Unwilling to shed tears.

But I blanch and recoil
At the sight of his blood
And his open vein.

Impressed by his toil.
Proud in his pain.