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.