My Merry Metrosexual Christmas

First, some housecleaning and apologies. I'm finally converted to "new" Blogger, and just realized, as a result, that I had somehow been blocking my comments. So, all unmoderated comments should now show up again. Sorry!

Now back to original programming:

There is a crude tradition among male golfers that when one of them fails to get his tee shot past the lady's tee box, he is always asked by his partners to pull down his pants in order to verify that he still qualifies as a man. I hardly ever golf these days, but having played a decent amount over the years, I can gladly say I never saw anyone actually oblige this request. Unrelated factoid: though I was not an eyewitness, I am aware of an acquaintance once pulling down his shorts and wiggling his wang at his (no doubt alarmed) television, all due to the poor play of his favorite football team in a big game. How's that for a digression?

In any case, I have felt like the guy with the short tee-shot during this festive season, with my own imaginative golf partners hectoring me for a lack of manliness. Why? Well, here are the highlights:

1. Last Thursday morning, I went to the mall in search of a certain diamond anniversary band (ahem - major brownie points) for my wife's surprise Christmas gift. While surreptitiously eye-balling jewelry store brochures without actually entering the stores, I walked by a middle-of-the-mall kiosk, and was accosted, in a friendly way, by a man of Middle Eastern descent. "Sir, do you have one minute?" he asked, and because I have an aversion to rudeness, even when it is not rude, I consented. The next thing I know, this guy is holding my hand in his, and is buffing one of my fingernails with some kind of nail-kit rubbing stuff. It was all I could do to not pull my hand away immediately, put a bag over my head, and leave the mall while gnashing my teeth. But I persevered, told the man I would consider the stuff for my wife, and walked on in shame.

2. Later, inside an actual free-standing jewelry store that got my business, I consented to being served a vanilla espresso while my credit report was being run. Fortunately, credit ratings don't rely on manliness points.

3. That afternoon, at another mall, I entered Victoria's Secret only to buy my wife some new undergarments. No g-strings, no lingerie, nothing to turn my face red, I swear (or else I wouldn't be telling you about it, now would I?). But, the girl at the counter did talk me into applying for a Victoria's Secret card, which I figured might be handy in the future (for the wife, of course). Unfortunately, while they were running my credit, the machine at my register went down, and I had to stand in line for at least 10 minutes while all around me women and teenage girls brought bras, panties, and who knows what else to the counter. Discomfort ensued. I could have just bided my time by staring at the softcore pinup advertisements on the walls (actually I did for at least, oh, three of those minutes), but too much of that would have made me seem a perv or a lecher, I decided. For those other seven minutes, there was simply no place to hide! Help!!

4. Moments later, while walking down the center of this mall, a young woman of Middle Eastern descent stops me and asks for "five seconds." So lost was I in the haze of paying for a diamond ring and being held captive (darn the luck) in Victoria's Secret, I don't think I even regained my mental faculties until I already found that my thumb was in this woman's hand and was getting the same damn polishing treatment that my other finger got earlier that morning at a separate location. "I CAN"T BELIEVE THIS!" I seem to recall thinking, and yet, as if paralyzed by kryptonite, I couldn't stop it. To make matters worse, I bought the kit this time after the lady haggled down the price.

5. Christmas morning I made an apple compote to accompany our breakfast casserole. Darn good, too. Got the recipe from watching Emeril on the... er... Food Network.

6. Later on Christmas morning I opened a package containing two Italian cookbooks which I... er... asked for for Christmas. (Hey, Clemenza in The Godfather cooked sauce for fifty men, remember).

So there you have it. I'm not even going to pretend to defend myself. You'll know I've really gone over the edge, metrosexually speaking, if I ever report going to a stylist instead of a barber.