Being a woman is cool; because we reserve the right to change our mind every five minutes, not tell you what we want, then whine about it when we don't get it.
The New York Times has a wicked article about how during the nineties, the New Man was all we desired, then our attention turned to the Lad, then the Just-Gay-Enough Man - now we want the He-Man:
“He won't whine about opening doors for you. He will, on the other hand, smash a door down for you, if you think your friend is trapped in there. He won't make a pass at your friend once he's saved her, but he will make a pass at you, despite the fact that you're married with seven children. However, he won't leave you to do the messy business on your own, he'll scoop you off somewhere nice and leave hubby to do boring things like file for divorce...There simply must be something feral about his bearing which suggests that, no matter how diminutive his stature, he could still beat off huge people with only the aid of a small lighter-cum-flame thrower”
It cites Russell Crowe as the example, as he epitomizes all that we're apparently lusting after right now. I know very few women who actually watched Gladiator, not just because it was crap, but because the only thing they were actually concentrating on was the divine guy in the suit of armour, beating the crap out of all and sundry, fighting the good fight. And don't forget the luscious Mr. Clooney, who is just a hunk of old fashioned swoon worthy manliness - now there's a bloke who could put up your shelves for you, look all sweaty and still be sexy, and give you a good seeing-to.
SO, WHAT KIND OF MAN I WANT?
I don’t want a he-man or a new-man or a macho-macho-man or a soft-man or anyone who can be canned and classified and conformed. I just want someone who is self-aware enough to know when to talk, and when it’s time to shut up. I want a sense of humor that isn’t permanently on, but is wickedly funny when it is. I want someone who can put up shelves (or at least is willing to try) but doesn’t wear a toolbelt and strut around as if he’s got cojones the size of melons. I want someone who has the self-knowledge and lack of ego to accept that I might actually be better at putting up shelves than them. I want a person who can talk with equal intelligence about politics and poetry, make a wicked sea breeze (or a fantastic cuba-libre) and whip up a roux from scratch (but also understand the nutritional benefits of a smash-and-ketchup sandwich as cure for a serious hangover). Someone who will sing in the shower (badly but with passion), be comfortable in his skin, accept that I am who I am BECAUSE and not IN SPITE of my life, and who will play with my hair and tell me when I’m being too sarky. I want someone who will amaze me, surprise me, re-a-ssu-re me, educate me, CHALLENGE me - and himself - constantly. Someone who does not have to cling like a limpet. Someone who doesn’t need to prove himself. Someone who likes the smell of pesto. Someone who can happily kiss for hours, or have a quickie in the bathroom before work. Who isn’t surgically attached to me, or the TV, or his possessions, family, stinky trainers, playstation or anything else. Who respects my friendships, complicated and otherwise, and doesn’t need to be included in everything. Someone who is content to sometimes just be, not do, together. Someone who just gets me.
Is that too much to ask, do you think?
OK, fine. I’ll settle for someone who likes red wine and is sane.
