Here’s the story of men, women, and confusion.
Do I give off a womanly vibe? I suppose to answer that, one must figure out what is a ‘womanly vibe’, which, upon reading that back, sounds like I’m referring to something from Ann Summers, I’d imagine. Oh, for any Americans reading… erm, I don’t know what your equivalent shop is. Very… erm, adult. I forget where I was going with this. Ah, yes. I was mistaken for a woman this week. Again. For the millionth time. I mean, I perhaps have the profile of one from certain angles, but even people online think I’m a girl. And this is the worst thing you can call a man. Not because there’s anything wrong with being a woman, only that this assumption of womanhood immediately makes you start to question your masculinity. And I don’t even have any to begin with, readers…
I’m not very masculine, probably. You wouldn’t find me on an oilrig all greasy and buff. I mean, to get there, I’d have to take a boat ride and you won’t find me on a boat anytime soon. Boats don’t agree with me. And yes, perhaps it would be a helicopter ride, but I get terrible airsickness. And I’m really thin. I mean, mowing the lawn is a struggle. And I hate being dirty. Properly dirty. Not ‘Ann Summers dirty’. Ew. Think of how many showers I’d need! Endless scrubbing. “Gotta get clean, gotta get clean, why can’t I get clean!”
You see, some women would be put off by me. They want the guy from the Coca-Cola adverts. The topless fella. Yeah, well, good luck with that one. He might be ridiculously good looking. Have abs to die for. Great in bed. Extremely well endowed. Has all the money in the world. But would he make you cocoa before bed? Aye, it’s the little things that make all the difference. Would he hold your hair back when you’re throwing up into the toilet? Nope. Nor would I. Golly, I hate the smell of vomit. It makes me want to vomit. You start vomiting, I’ll run a mile…
And perhaps that’s the problem. Most men are striving to reach this ideal of supreme masculinity and most of us will never reach it. You can’t win in life, can you? You try to be the Coca-Cola guy, lots of people hate you because you’re unrealistic. You accept that you’ll never be the Coca-Cola guy and you just try to be a normal bloke, but then you get accused of not trying hard enough. Of not caring about your appearance. So you try to be a gentleman, but then you get accused of trying too hard. Walking a girl home or taking her for a nice walk in the countryside, like they did in the olden days. “Oh God, he’s insufferable! I just want to go to a bar and get pissed, what’s wrong with him?” So then you do what I decided to do and just give up completely. I’m completely detached from the real world. It’s too much hassle, isn’t it? It’s very peaceful inside my little bubble.
Of course, there is a danger that forces from outside will try to squirm into your life. But that’s relatively easy to deal with. “Ally, I’ve liked you for a while, do you want to go to the cinema at the weekend?” “Nope.” And then you just walk off. Well, there’s no sure fire way to work out which woman is which. Is she the nightclub girl, or the walks in the countryside girl, or perhaps the ‘I want to date a super hunky millionaire type’? You just can’t tell. Some would say that’s what dates are for, but I don’t see how a wasted night can be considered productive. It could lead to something, but equally, I could’ve wasted my night. I could’ve been at home sorting my sock drawer out, and, logically, that’s a far greater use of my time.
Now, some women would say that’s it’s a bit rich for a guy to have a go at the super hunks and at some women for lusting after these people, but I wouldn’t date a supermodel. I want to have a laugh with a girl. I want a best friend. I want someone who’ll listen to my drivel and won’t fall asleep when I show her my bus ticket collection. A girl who’ll appreciate the old-fashioned guy inside me. Oh, hang on, that didn’t sound right…
My point is that men have a very clear understanding of their ‘social masculinity’. I know where I am on the rung of that ladder. I’m the one holding it up at the bottom, an endeavour I’ve always questioned because the guy at the top is still vulnerable to a strong breeze. You’d be better off holding the ladder at the top. Or, better yet, invent jetpacks. I mean, you’ll burn the lawn of the old dear whose windows you’re washing, but you’ll look cool doing it…
So when someone calls me a woman, and means it, it’s one of those outside forces that you try not to let rile you. But it does. I was at the reception area of an office and I was signing out. And this bloke said to me, “Excuse me madam, can you come with me, please?”
I know all women would say, “So what?” But it’s so significant for a man. Imagine, ladies, if someone, to your face, started listing all the reasons why you look so manly. Now, you wouldn’t let it bother you at first, but by the time the accuser has arrived at bullet point number 75, you’re gonna start getting a bit annoyed, aren’t you? That point, number 75, is how a man feels the second he’s genuinely mistaken for a woman. Especially a man like I, because this has happened to me on numerous occasions, and it does make you question your masculinity. Which, yes, is a social construct and utter bollocks, just like femininity, but it’s so engrained into every man’s mind that you can’t escape it. So, what is this womanly vibe I’m giving off? Especially online…
I don’t look like a woman, despite my exceedingly long hair. And do remember, the guy who called me ‘madam’ was looking at me from the front. Confusing me for a woman is literally like confusing a banjo with a cat. Online, however, is a trickier conundrum. I’ve yet to meet a woman who thinks or talks like I do. So maybe there’s something else going on. Maybe I’m a relic. Maybe how I look upon the world is more indicative of a woman. I don’t know. I really don’t. I can assure you, I am a man and all the bits are there to prove it.
Some would say it’s an overreaction, but a woman who’s been there when a man discovers his first grey hair will attest that men do like to overreact. I do like to overreact. I was so damn angry! But you can’t say anything, can you? “Excuse me, I’m a man!” That could make things worse. They wouldn’t think, “Ah, my apologies.” They’d think I was a woman who thought I was a man. We should behave how we behave toward those babies we can’t tell are boys or girls. I know it’s awful, but we’ve all been in that situation. “Oh, what a beautiful baby. What’s… its name?” “Oh, Jo.” ‘Ah, crap, that could be both!’ If you’re not sure, don’t assume.
Yet another situation where I would run a mile…
American author, Meg Cabot (b. 1967), once wrote: ‘“A woman needs a man like a fish needs a bicycle.” I really hate this expression. I bet fish would totally want bicycles.’
Peace Out :|:
I’d love to hear your thoughts on this post. You can leave a comment and/or like this post below, or by clicking the title on the top of this post if you are on the ‘Archives’ page. Likes and follows greatly appreciated. Thanks.
Please feel free check out the latest posts from my other two blogs:
To Contrive & Jive
New Posts Every Sunday, Tuesday and Thursday
Click Here to Reach the Latest Post
Hark Around the Words
New Post Every Sunday
Click Here to Reach the Latest Post