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.