The Typical Male Athlete

The typical male, as he ages, fancies that he still possesses vestiges of his former self, though-be-it scraps of athleticism that dangle from his pale and balding pate like moth-eaten carpet remnants.  He is certain that, if given the perfect combination of conditions, he could still shoot par.  And as long as he can swing anything around the house (weed-whacker, shrub clippers, etc.) he believes that he could still wield a major league bat and could hit a curve ball.

Women, on the other hand, realize that their prime athletic abilities vanished during the months of pregnancy and they are now free to laugh at the men whose waistlines are larger than their egos.  This is the new feminine sport, and they enjoy it immensely.

Naturally, as older men balloon to Sumo proportions, they gravitate to those athletic events that seem suited to XXXL sizes:  Olympic weight lifting, shot putting, hammer throwing, rolling down a green hillside littered with poison ivy.  They believe there is an event, a sport, that they can still play with some efficiency and ease.  Age is no barrier.  Or they could coach and yell at younger men, setting themselves up as experts in their chosen fields, instructing the able-bodied and buoyed up under the delusion that they are actually impacting the game on the field by screaming at the referees and making shrewd substitutions.

The typical male athlete, as he ages, enjoys the preparation for the athletic event much more than the athletic event itself.  This preparation comes complete with piles of nacho chips (carb loading phase), sheets of BBQ ribs (protein synthesis), and generous scoops of ice cream (cool down phase).  The older male actually believes this regimen is working to his advantage, making him stronger, more agile, deft with a fork.  Even while he's sitting on his ass, he's in training.

Eventually the older male retires from athletic competition in same manner as Brent Farve or Michael Jordan--after several failed attempts and multiple trips to the pharmacy for pain killers.  This usually occurs when the male is in his eighties and is on life support.

Following his retirement, he hopes for a trophy.  He purchases one from Walmart and sits it on the mantle.  His wife dusts it twice and year and eventually tosses it in the trash.

And that's when he says, "Today, I consider myself the luckiest man on the face of the earth."  

Man-Sized

Eventually the older male realizes that he is a pawn in a marketing scheme designed to separate him from his wallet. When he goes to the grocery store, for example, he is accosted with labels touting the contents as "man-sized" or "manly". There is even something called a "Manwich." And even TV dinners come in frozen slabs designed the quell a man's enormous appetite.

Some years ago a deodorant company told us that their product was "strong enough for a man, but made for a woman." I never used the product, however, as I didn't want my wife to think I was worried about my odor. Somewhere I had read that women actually like a natural man-scent, not something artificial, and that pheromones are the real deal.

I do, however, possess some man-sized features such as: my home library, which is enormous; my CD collection, which is enormous; and my tool box full of broken screwdrivers, which is very enormous. I collect other things on a small scale, and don't like to spend much time exercising, which is why I write this blog.

Men are natural suckers, though, for the super-sized meals and drinks that the marketing experts toss in our faces. We don't want to drink anything small in the company of a woman and, when given the choice, most men will opt for a steak the size of Nebraska. Small orders make us look cheap, and we don't like that either.

Those marketing people know that older men, in particular, feel trapped and inadequate. We need the morale-boost that super-sized and man-sized items can give us. We feel tough when we order large.

That, of course, is why I don't diet. I keep waiting for someone to invent a way to lose man-sized weight while eating a super-sized pizza.

Olympic-sized Physical

Today I venture into the doctor's office for the annual physical. This appointment is daunting, and is nothing like the routine physical of the young Olympic athlete. I must bring my checkbook. And my nerve.
In the annual physical the older male is subjected to a series of pokes, prods, and needle-jabs--all designed to insure him that he is ageing as God intended and will die at the appropriate 78.5 years allotted him. Among the various indicators of his health include:

Blood Pressure Check--which is conducted in handcuffs by a beautiful nurse who, afterwards, asks him to disrobe. Naturally, this sends his blood pressure sky high and the doctor immediately administers medication to offset these "excited palpitations".

Cholesterol Jab--here a large needle, roughly the size of Wyoming, is inserted into the older man's arm and a quart of blood is siphoned into a Styrofoam cup. The blood is sent to a lab in Indonesia where it is subjected to a series of picklings, boilings, and consistency tests. The results are sent back over the internet to the doctor's office, along with a menu of lunch options, where a nursing staff interprets the results and determines that the older male is a high-health risk and must immediately be dropped by his insurer. Naturally, there is laughter, but after drawing straws the losing nurse calls the older male and informs him that his cholesterol level is higher than Mount Everest and that, statistically, he should have died four years ago when he last ate at Denny's. Options are offered, including giving up the donuts, cutting out the ice cream, or nixing the butter. The older male rolls the dice of fate and continues to enjoy them all.

HDL--this is the "good cholesterol" which the older male should have in abundance. Naturally, he has little of it, and also tests for low levels of testosterone, libido, and will-power. The doctor tells him to eat more nuts, but the older male is already eating forty pounds of almonds per day and rarely has a banana. Again, the prognosis is not pretty and the doctor, at this point, usually throws up his hands and says, "I can't work like this!"

Eye and Ear Check--here a bright light is shined into the eyes and the older male is asked to read an eye chart containing words like "GYBRZNIK" and "XTUBLUMP", which he cannot pronounce. Afterwards, a sharp instrument is inserted into the ears and the doctor yells, "Can you hear me now!?"

Prostate Exam--enough for today. We shall save this for another time.

Salon.com

In response to the growing popularity of this Manopause blog, you can now visit my insanity on Salon.com.

Just go to the Open Salon icon and find me (Todd Outcalt) or the blog (Manopause) and enjoy a laugh.

Thanks for reading.

Travelin' Man

As a man ages, he becomes adept at packing for a trip.  His plans consist of five pair of underwear which, if he doesn't sweat too heavily, could easily last for five weeks.  He also packs two shirts, one pair of Bermuda shorts (which he plans to wear for the entire trip), and a couple of pair of socks.  He also packs one pair of dress pants in case his wife wakes up one morning and announces, "Let's go to the theatre."  The remainder of his packing is completed by his wife, who removes the five pair of underwear, the shirts, and the shorts and inserts entirely new offerings that she believes will be more consistent with her own wardrobe selection and color scheme.

The traveling man, upon arrival at the hotel, is flabbergasted to find a completely different attire than he packed himself.  But he is grateful for the help and agrees to buy his wife some nacho chips or a big pretzel from one of those street vendors who specialize in botulism and certain types of bubonic plague. 

When the older man travels he also comes prepared with charts and maps.  These he has drawn up himself on small slips of paper, having planned the entire trip late at night during Conan reruns.  When he arrives at his destination he scraps these charts when his wife says, "Let's just wing it."

The traveling man also prides himself on being able to hail a cab--especially if the driver is from a Far Eastern nation or has a twelve-inch scar running diagonally across his face that is still oozing puss.  An older man is not put-off by these idiosyncrasies, but, in fact, embraces them as part of the melting-pot diversity of America.  He wishes that his own name had forty-seven consonants and no vowels.

In time the traveling man settles into his new surroundings and wishes that he and his wife had not brought along the eighteen-year-old college freshman.  They wonder if they should have left him in Queens instead of watching David Letterman and wondering, "Could we have been sitting in the Letterman audience tonight if we had joined the stand-by line?"

Rather, the traveling man comforts himself with cold showers each morning and ventures out onto the street to find a cup of coffee strong enough to strip veneer off a piano bench.  He says "Good morning" to complete strangers and stares up into a facade of skyscrapers so tall that some of them have their own zip codes.  He does not try to hide the fact that he is a tourist, but embraces his own nerdiness, not ashamed of the fact that he has wondered onto the street without shoes.  But he is at home among the derelicts and drops a few dimes.

Later, when he greets his wife, he offers her a morning newspaper and his undying gratitude.  That, of course, is something he can take home.  But he realizes it only when he is on vacation.   

Ode to Andy

While watching late-night TV in a hotel room in New York, I learned about the death of Andy Griffith.  Griffith was 86 and certainly one of my favorite actors.  I was, after all, born the week (October 12, 1960) that The Andy Griffith Show premiered on CBS (October 8, 1960).  I grew up with Opie, Aunt Bee, Gomer, Goober, Floyd, Barney and good ol' Andy.

I don't remember the Griffith Show in first run, but the show has never been off the air since it premiered, and the AGS reruns were a huge part of my early memories and television entertainment.  At one time (long before the 8 seasons were produced in DVD format for sale), I had video-taped all of the episodes (249 total) by hand on VHS format over the course of several years.  I have led many AGS "Bible Studies" as well, and these were some of the best-attended studies I've conducted over the years.  I know most of the episodes by heart and can recite many line-for-line.

Many folks also don't understand how versatile an actor Griffith was.  He got his start in the movie, A Face in the Crowd, which was quite dramatic, and went on to become a gospel recording star (a Grammy-winner) and the star of a second successful show: Matlock.

I'll miss Andy (but I have most of his movies, TV shows, and CD's on my shelves).  Nevertheless, I've got to write a bit about him.  How about an Ode?  (And I have no idea what an ode is.)

Ode to Andy

Some people might balk at a sheriff
Who never carried a gun,
But you never seemed to care if
You had enough laughter and fun.

You had a son named Opie
But no wife or an ex
And though your show was hokey
You must have once had sex.

Of course the town was simple,
Though in its own way, wise.
And you dished out a heart-full
Like Aunt Bee dished out pies.

We loved your sidekick, Barney,
And Otis and the rest.
And though the show was corny
We felt that we were blessed.

We'll miss you, Andy Taylor,
And hope you rest in peace,
Though many still may pray for
More episodes like these:

That we'll dodge Barney's bullet
And laugh until we die
And meet you some day yonder
In that jailhouse in the sky.

Yes, Butt . . . .

Most men like to think that they are working their butts off.  This is a man's prerogative.  And it's difficult to do.

Working your butt off requires complete dedication and long hours.  A man might start with lots of butt, but if he's dedicated, he can work his butt off in a few years.  In fact, others might notice that he's working his butt off long before he does.  Usually it's other men who say, "Man, you're really working your butt off!" or "You worked your butt off on that project."

Once a man works his butt off, however, he will want to keep it off.  And the only way to keep it off is to continue working his butt off.  He will want to work weekends, holidays, overtime.  Whatever it takes.  If he has a family he will want to inform them that, while he is sorry if they feel neglected or abandoned, it is imperative that he work his butt off.  After all, his family should be supporting him while he is working his butt off.  He will show love for his family by working his butt off. 

Men who work their butts off are assets to their communities, too.  People all over town will notice and say, "No one works his butt off like this guy!"  Or if the man is involved in athletics, the coach will take note and say, "He's really working his butt off out there!"  A baseball manager will note: "He's coming around this season and starting to work his butt off!"  Sometimes the boss will give a man a bonus and say, "This is for working your butt off."

Men who have worked their butts off are easy to identify.  They have, after all, worked their butts off.  They are rather one-dimensional. 

Men, however, should never tell a woman, "Gosh, you've worked your butt off!"  This would not be appropriate and could get him into trouble.  Even if his wife were to ask, "Does this dress make my butt look big?", he can't respond by saying, "Are you kidding me?  You've worked your butt off!"  She would never believe that she's worked her butt off, even if she's taking care of seventeen children and has spent an entire week painting the house in ninety-degree heat . . . she would never say, "I worked my butt off this week."  Women don't like to admit that they have worked their butts off.  Women are concerned about their butts, of course, but they don't want anyone to think they have worked their butts off.  This would be drawing attention to their butts, which women don't like to do.  But in private they might actually think, "Geewhiz, I wish I could work my butt off!"

Men have a penchant for working their butts off.  They like to think that they are working their butts off, even if they are not working their butts off.  But they would never look in the mirror and say, "Holy Cow!  I've worked my butt off!"  However, they might say to another guy, "You may not realize this . . . but you are working your butt off!"

Of course, one good thing a man can say about working his butt off is that he's actually accomplished something.  It may be the only thing he ever achieves in his lifetime. 

Butt . . . if he keeps working . . . .