Saturday, June 24, 2006
Where Have All The Cowboys Gone?
by venitha
I'm willing to accept any number of reasons for it. Lower testosterone levels. Cultural differences. The fad - please tell me it's a fad - of the metrosexual. My gaydar being way off. Still, these facts remain: there is a distinct lack of macho in Singapore, and I am going through withdrawal.
Like the prim and proper girl with the strict religious upbringing who crashes and burns on the hedonistic freedoms of college dorms, I do best with moderation. Deprivation ultimately leads to over-indulgence. Alongside the very real possibility that Singapore's high alcohol prices are paving the road to Alcoholism, USA, I have recently laid a new concern: what will be the effect of the missing macho?
Don't get me wrong. I am a very happily married woman, and this has nothing to do with my handsome, sexy, studly, plenty-macho husband. Nor is it an intended slight to any of the other hot hot hot men I've had the pleasure of spending time with this past week. I'm not saying that I want to have a mad passionate affair with an Adonis straight off a romance novel cover. Or that I want to touch the rock hard pecs of a suntanned lifeguard. Or even that I want to look at a sexy cowboy or two wearing tight Wranglers, an enormous belt buckle, and a come-hither grin. Well, okay, looking would be nice, but really, I just want the assurance of knowing that manly men - and lots of them - exist.
Of knowing that there are men bigger than I am, taller than I am, stronger than I am.
Men who can fix things around the house without requiring three levels of management to lord it over one small sad non-English-speaking grunt who hasn't a clue what he's doing.
Men who cook meat on backyard grills wearing aprons that say Kiss The Cook, and you want to, to take his head in your hands a plant a big wet noisy smooker in bright red lipstick in the middle of his forehead.
Men who hug you hello and good-bye, enveloping you in warmth and affection.
Unattached men who make you wish you knew more single women.
Men who don't like to shop and who don't have cars for pets and who don't read self-help books and who don't use more gel than, well, than - I'm sorry, but what the @#$! is with all that gel?
Men who love dogs and football and beer.
Men who flash straight white teeth in frequent smiles.
Men who are equally comfortable in flannel and in fleece and in a baseball cap.
Men who are sarcastic, appreciate irony, have a biting wit and a quick sense of humor.
Men who read novels, have rhythm, who make me think and make me laugh.
Perhaps all of this is just the result of my getting older, and this in-want-of-macho world is where I live now that I'm a 37-going-on-50-year-old woman who hasn't had a good haircut in God-knows-how-long and who is larger than what-seems-like-everyone else, including all the men, and who dresses plainly and soberly in a scandalized reaction to the popular bling-bling-is-not-just-for-teeny-boppers / is-she-a-prostitute-or-is-it-just-really-hot wardrobe of the women around her and who is unhappy.
Nah. It's much more likely that I'm just thinking too much and that all I really need is to kiss my husband passionately in the elevator and to join a gym that will provide some eye candy. But as I tick off the kilometers on my condo's lonely treadmill, my iPod quivers with Paula Cole's lament: Where have all the cowboys gone?
I hear ya, sister. I hear ya.
venitha
Like the prim and proper girl with the strict religious upbringing who crashes and burns on the hedonistic freedoms of college dorms, I do best with moderation. Deprivation ultimately leads to over-indulgence. Alongside the very real possibility that Singapore's high alcohol prices are paving the road to Alcoholism, USA, I have recently laid a new concern: what will be the effect of the missing macho?
Don't get me wrong. I am a very happily married woman, and this has nothing to do with my handsome, sexy, studly, plenty-macho husband. Nor is it an intended slight to any of the other hot hot hot men I've had the pleasure of spending time with this past week. I'm not saying that I want to have a mad passionate affair with an Adonis straight off a romance novel cover. Or that I want to touch the rock hard pecs of a suntanned lifeguard. Or even that I want to look at a sexy cowboy or two wearing tight Wranglers, an enormous belt buckle, and a come-hither grin. Well, okay, looking would be nice, but really, I just want the assurance of knowing that manly men - and lots of them - exist.
Of knowing that there are men bigger than I am, taller than I am, stronger than I am.
Men who can fix things around the house without requiring three levels of management to lord it over one small sad non-English-speaking grunt who hasn't a clue what he's doing.
Men who cook meat on backyard grills wearing aprons that say Kiss The Cook, and you want to, to take his head in your hands a plant a big wet noisy smooker in bright red lipstick in the middle of his forehead.
Men who hug you hello and good-bye, enveloping you in warmth and affection.
Unattached men who make you wish you knew more single women.
Men who don't like to shop and who don't have cars for pets and who don't read self-help books and who don't use more gel than, well, than - I'm sorry, but what the @#$! is with all that gel?
Men who love dogs and football and beer.
Men who flash straight white teeth in frequent smiles.
Men who are equally comfortable in flannel and in fleece and in a baseball cap.
Men who are sarcastic, appreciate irony, have a biting wit and a quick sense of humor.
Men who read novels, have rhythm, who make me think and make me laugh.
Perhaps all of this is just the result of my getting older, and this in-want-of-macho world is where I live now that I'm a 37-going-on-50-year-old woman who hasn't had a good haircut in God-knows-how-long and who is larger than what-seems-like-everyone else, including all the men, and who dresses plainly and soberly in a scandalized reaction to the popular bling-bling-is-not-just-for-teeny-boppers / is-she-a-prostitute-or-is-it-just-really-hot wardrobe of the women around her and who is unhappy.
Nah. It's much more likely that I'm just thinking too much and that all I really need is to kiss my husband passionately in the elevator and to join a gym that will provide some eye candy. But as I tick off the kilometers on my condo's lonely treadmill, my iPod quivers with Paula Cole's lament: Where have all the cowboys gone?
I hear ya, sister. I hear ya.
venitha
