I’m a man, but I don’t think I’m “a man,” as the media would describe me.
I get squirmish trying to unhook fish when my son catches them, I can’t change my own oil, I like to BBQ, but I’m not really good at it.
I do the groceries, my wife asks me for fashion advice, and I’m cool if a Monday on the couch involves two hours of “The Women Tell All” on The Bachelor.
Am I a “sensitive” man? A “modern” man? A “metrosexual” man? Nah, I’m just me.
But wander in to any big book store this week and you’ll be greeted with a table of books that proclaim the neanderthal-ness of those of us blessed with XY chromosomes.
Any man worried about his manliness is probably so manly that he doesn’t read. Nonetheless, these books will try to bait you on what it means to be a man. Their themes are simple and obvious: men only care about beer, and meat, we’re also stupid, and lazy.
Such tired themes, really. Skip 6 of them, buy 1.
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