Day 857
                                                   ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
          It is just a hole, Jim thought to himself as he inspected the rectangular pit he had hollowed out around his feet. No different than any other he had dug in the past twelve years, he figured - intended for a singular purpose. He wiped the sweat from his brow and peered into his finished undertaking with a small but warm sense of satisfaction. Knowing his hard work had rewarded him with this familiar feeling inspired a shy smile to creep across his face. He allowed it to linger. He tried not to think about what it meant to finish the job he had begun. Knowing the hole was for himself only scratched at the recesses of his mind - knowing this was the last hole he would ever dig.
          The earth was soft and inviting. Warm rays of light danced up and down the sides of the hole. Jim took great pride in his work as he always did. He cherished every sip from his canteen, but was sure not to delay his work for too long while resting. He decided before he began that he would not pause his work out of fear, but only out of thirst. Jim wanted his last job to be the same as every other. Pretending his sweat and sore hands would be rewarded with a handsome paycheck eased his mind. He completed digging the hole with the same love and attention to detail as always. He took his time to make sure the sides were perfectly perpendicular to the bottom and that no roots stuck through the sides. Everything had to be flush. The final few scoops of dirt were so precisely considered, they would hardly fill a salad bowl. It was too perfect.
          Sitting now, on the edge of his own grave, with the toes of his boots only barely scraping the bottom, he thought of Seattle and the day everything changed. For a brief moment, fear grabbed his skin and tightened it with an all too familiar sensation. His arm hair stood on end, and a shiver ran down his spine and the backs of his legs only to stop dead where his boots clenched at his calves. He chuckled suddenly. Knowing now how everything had ended and was going to end, he couldn’t help but laugh. Life is so predictable once you get to the end of the line, he thought to himself. “You’ve always had it right, Pops” He said coarsely, in the direction of the unforgivable humming sound echoing through the treetops. 
            Jim settled into his grave with an assertiveness that surprised him. He was more comfortable with what he was doing than he ever thought possible. Bodies belong in the ground, after all, he reminded himself. Looking into the crowded canopy of the moss covered pines he held his breath. The soft bristle of pine needles rolling over one another on the forest floor and the faint swish of boughs brushing against the sides of neighboring trees brought a fine sense of serenity to Jim’s ears. He breathed slowly and evenly, enjoying the fresh air. Closing his eyes, he tried to clear his mind. He tried to ignore the incessant humming that had been following him, haunting and hunting him for two days. Forcing his ears to focus beyond the hum, Jim let the forest fill his ears - the near silence so specific to nature. When only the wind remained, a poem forced itself to the forefront of Jim’s thoughts, burrowed in like a tick and whispered to him.

If we are blessed
with the foresight or happenstance of knowing
our end before its ending,
it is not where we go
once we die that defines us,
but rather where we go to die.
 
          Foresight or happenstance, Jim had chosen the perfect spot. He opened his eyes to shake the words from his thoughts. In what seemed to be an intentionally delayed moment, the dry husk of a pine cone fell slowly toward Jim’s position in the hole. It wavered slightly in the light wind and landed just on the edge of the grave, bouncing down it came to rest on Jim’s chest, sitting upright as if to say “hello.” Jim let another smile creep up the side of his face. Staring into the bent thorns of the pine cone, he entertained himself with the thought of lying in the hollowed out earth until nature herself decided to bury him. Looking down toward his feet, he tried to calculate how many pine cones it would take. Feeling satisfied with his calculations, he glanced back up toward the canopy and started to count all the browning cones he could see. After only a minute, he realized that there aren’t nearly enough to finish the job. Jim closed his eyes once more, took a deep breath, and held it in.
            When he opened his eyes, he looked straight up at the faded brown canvas dangling above his head. He figured he probably loaded it with at least three-hundred and fifty pounds of dirt and rocks - more than enough to hold a man his size down in a lying position. His hands were hot and sweaty and he remembered that he was still wearing his work gloves. Finger by finger, he slowly removed his leather gloves and placed them on his right thigh. His hand returned to his side to find the stock of his .30 caliber rifle. Years ago the rifle belonged to his grandfather and had a standard single shot bolt action. Shortly after leaving Seattle, he had a friend of his retrofit it to accommodate a ten round magazine. He was fairly certain he wouldn’t need ten shots today, but he was a man that prided himself in always being prepared.
            He raised the rifle and propped the barrel against the side of the grave. In supporting the butt of the gun against his collar bone, he could look down the sights without raising his head off of the ground. He knew he would struggle when the load of dirt came crashing down on him, it was only natural, but he didn’t want it to last any longer than necessary and he certainly didn’t want to be able to sit up or claw his way to the surface. After all, the hole was only three feet deep. He had loaded the heaviest of the rocks into the side of the tarp that hung directly over his chest just for this reason. Maybe, if he was lucky, the force would be enough to knock him unconscious. 
            Jim steadied the gun and took careful aim down the sights. The yellow nylon rope was stressed from the weight of the tarp’s contents, but he knew that the rope was five-hundred pound test and he would need a direct shot in order to sever it entirely. He exhaled slowly and squeezed the trigger just as his grandfather had taught him. A sharp report rang out and echoed amongst the trees. The recoil was enough to cause the butt of the gun to shift off of Jim’s collar bone and hit him in the chin - a blow he mistook for the load of rocks and soil hitting him in the face. Jim slowly relaxed his contorted face and opened his eyes. He had only just grazed the rope. A few small threads of rope curled away from the rest and the nylon slowly stretched under the stress. Jim looked up and noticed the tarp was just barely shifting. Its weight now slightly off center, a rock rolled across the top of the soil to the other side of the load. A faint twang vibrated off of the rope as another sliver gave loose and curled away.
            Jim held his breath in suspense, waiting for it to be over but nothing more happened. The wind seemed to hold its breath with him, and at that moment, the forest fell absolutely silent. The silence hung on the moment as it does at critical times. Nothing remained but the slightest echo of the shot and the sharp percussion of the report reverberating in Jim’s ears. Slowly, the sound faded into a familiar hum. He exhaled loudly and hotly and became aware of the awkward crunched up face he had been holding. Embarrassed by the fact he had cringed in such a ridiculous way, he giggled at himself nervously. Just as Jim’s giggling began to fade, the humming grew more distinguished and one of the miniature drones popped into sight. Jim instinctively aimed the rifle at it, but it was useless, the thing darted away through the trees before he could even look through the sights. Then a noise came from the treetops - a slight rustle as something fell slowly through the branches. Jim jerked up, startled, trying to catch a glimpse of what was falling, hoping one of the drones had crashed into a tree or finally ran out of power.
          A still-green pine cone came bounding down from one of the ponderosas blocked from his view by the canvas. It bounced at a sharp angle off of the root of a tree and rolled forward with just enough force to reach the precipice of Jim’s grave. Jim traced the cones’ movement carefully with his eyes and as if to cheer it on, he contorted his mouth into an O shape as it approached the foot of his grave. He let out a small “ooh” as it tumbled over the edge and landed directly between his boots. He greeted its landing with raucous laughter. The gun fell to his side as he grabbed his stomach and snorted outbursts of amusement. “Only seven hundred and forty-two to go,” he blurted out to the tops of the trees. His laughter echoed through the pines and faded into the wind.

The Millennial generation suffers from a bad case of mislabeling. Even the simplest of definitions, like the years in which we were born, evade us. Some professional generation labelers, if there really is such a thing, think that we Millennials were born as early as 1975, which is ridiculous. The 70s is an era we never occupied and only understand as a time of weird fashion and music that makes for great themed parties and prep rallies. Otherwise, it only existed to stock our thrift stores with crazy shit. Our parents know about the 70s, we don’t. Others believe the Millennial generation spreads as far into the 21st century as 2005, which is equally preposterous. We have as much in common as someone born in 2005 as we have in common with raccoons, which, yes, is substantial, but whatever, we dislike young people as much as anybody else.

We are a unique generation. We are a generation of four leaf clovers. We are snowflakes, pretty, unique little snowflakes with mustaches and weird, unpredictable spending habits. We are the first generation to straddle the digital era. A good chunk of us remember dial-up internet and disposable cameras, while others of us were born with digital utility belts and can easily probe the deepest secrets of the newest gadgets without so much as cracking the plastic wrap on the instruction manual.

It is time to answer this question once and for all. I will make it as precise as possible as to avoid any further debate or confusion. If you were born between January 1, 1980 at 12:00am and December 31, 1999 at 11:59pm eastern standard time, you belong to the Millennial generation. If you born before this window you are a gen Xer and are old enough to gleefully segregate yourself from us lazy, narcissistic Millennials. If you were born after this time window you are too young for anybody to really care about. You are insignificant as of now, but by the time you become economically noteworthy, we will be sure to name you, label you worse than us, and blame you for things you don’t fully understand.

This time frame makes the most sense for the Millennial generation. First of all, it is nice and round numbers, 1980 – 2000, which is great because we are lazy and math is hard. This means that today the oldest Millennial is in his early thirties and the youngest is still in high school. We are a gloriously diverse group. Though it may take us time to gain traction, the world will be better off once we do.  

With graduation season just around the corner, C students everywhere are shaking in their swagger, trying to figure out how to make themselves look good on paper. I get it. Résumés are scary. That word “résumé” by itself is intimidating. It doesn’t even look like English with those weird little marky-things above the Es.

Don’t worry yourself with such nonsense. You weren’t a literature major, you have real skills. You don’t need to know what big words mean, just how to use them.

The art of creating an impressive resume has very little to do with your actual experience or abilities. Which is good news for you, because let’s face it, as a college student you don’t really have much of either.

At best, you are a twenty-something-year-old who still doesn’t know how to do your own taxes or pay your own health insurance. At worst, you are a liberal arts major who doesn’t know what your social security number is used for and still believe you are going to make it as a poet or singer/songwriter.  

Lucky for you, resumes are all about presentation and descriptive power. Think of it as an exercise in translation. You are writing a document that translates your college-life stories into adult-speak. The chore is to take all the “stuff” and “things” you’ve done in college and describe them in such a way that people other than your parents will be impressed. The pompous vocabulary you’ve been whirling around your head like some medieval weapon for the past four years will finally serve you well.

Face it, your actual experiences are mostly pathetic and inconsequential in the grand scheme of things. Say, what? You got published by an undergraduate literary arts magazine? And wrote for the student newspaper? Well, excuse me, let me hold the door for you. Grow up.

It is time to learn how to talk about yourself without beginning with the words “dude” or “seriously.” But seriously dude, you have had valuable experiences while in college, you probably just don’t remember them as such.

Remember that time you handed out fliers for your roommates’ girlfriends’ reggae band because you owed him a solid. Good times, right? No. But spin it the right way and the experience will at lease appear valuable. You didn’t hand out ten fliers to strangers outside the bookstore before giving up and putting the rest on a table in a nearby coffee shop. In real life you might describe it to your friends as a wasted afternoon, but on a résumé, you have to crank it up a notch and convince your prospective employers that you did something worthwhile. What you really did was conduct strategic publicity for a budding artist.  

Then add that you supervised a multifaceted marketing campaign or interacted with targeted audience members and oversaw public relations. You may have even created and disseminated promotional materials in hard copy and electronic formats. Run with it. You may be more impressive then you ever imagined.

Honestly, it is all about the verbs. Employers love résumés that are dripping with vaguely professional sounding action verbs. You never want to say that you bought something for the company. Instead, say that you managed inventory and procured critical resources. You don’t simply work with others, you administer, delegate, and manage.

At some point in the first four years of your adult life, you must have researched and revised something. Perhaps you prioritized and evaluated. Maybe you even maintained or implemented.

God knows you observed and simplified.

Here are some other skills you might have.

Liquid Nutrient Acquisition: At one point you were the only roommate with a working car, so, you know, beer run.

Monthly Finance Negotiations: Splitting bills with six housemates is a painfully complicated process, and Jeff never paid his bills on time.

Real Time Electronic Auctions: Craigslist ads and garage sales are pertinent to survival. 

Artist Promotion: You put stickers for your friend’s website in bathroom stalls all over town.

Essential Resource Procurement: You stole copious amounts of toilet paper from the University Library for your dorm or off-campus apartment.

Delegated Facilities Maintenance: Remember that time you held Jeff’s laptop hostage until he washed his dishes? God, do you hate Jeff.

You know that basket next to the door where you throw all of your housemate’s mail? Didn’t you come up with that? Sounds like you may have developed and supervised the implementation of a new internal mailing system.

Nothing will force you to reconsider your priorities and passions faster than a double shift at the drive-thru window. Graduating in a recession may be the best remedy for my generation.

Plenty of hubbub is flying around the blogosphere about the crummy job market and college graduates’ struggles to find consistent employment. An unstoppable horde of cynical, degree-wielding adults is storming the Internet in order to ricochet sob stories off one another. Almost without failure, they blame the recession, or the president, or each other. They moan endlessly about how they can’t find a career that stimulates them, a vocation that relates to their studies, or whatever.

Good. Their moans are music to my ears—the sound of shattered delusions. Discontent is the precursor to change.

It may come across as a shock to the swarms of bright-eyed, soon to be college graduates out there, but landing a dream job isn’t easy. Hell, finding one you can tolerate is rare enough. Most people are miserable with their jobs and those who tell you they aren’t are lying. Maybe one out of a hundred people goes to work every morning riding on a ray of sunshine with a grin on his face. The truth is, most people who have found true happiness in their work, didn’t come across it easily. They strayed from their plans and sampled a cornucopia of occupations. If you are having a hard time figuring your life out, take it as a good sign.

If you want to be one of the few people who are truly happy with their jobs, it takes more than a bachelor’s degree, a firm handshake, and wishful thinking. You need the courage to explore your interests, the integrity to recognize your mistakes, and the patience to overcome your failures. And there will be failures.

College isn’t some guaranteed gateway to success. Like everything else in life, what you get out of college is proportional to what you put into it. Blaming your early-onset, mid-life crises on the nature of society or some elusive economic conundrum will only appease your frustrations for so long. Instead, take stock of the benefits your youth offers and explore your passions while you can. Retirement is not the time to start putting tallies on your bucket list. Plus, your false hip won’t take the stress of skydiving.

If you can’t find a use for your anthropology degree or are tormented by occupying the lowest rung of the corporate ladder, take a moment to reconsider your professional trajectory. Changing career paths only becomes more tedious over time. Before you know it, the job you are doing “just to pay the bills” will become your life’s work.

Much to my surprise, no impeccably dressed individual appeared at graduation to offer me a sign-on bonus, a job of any sort, or a part-time, unpaid internship. Instead, I walked across a stage, shook some stranger’s hand and left with a slip of paper bound by ribbon that read, “This is not your actual diploma.”

Like most people, I was led to believe that an education from a four-year university meant four years of hard work followed by a new car, a house, a reasonable retirement plan, and vacationing once every few years somewhere exotic. I believed that once I was awarded my bachelor’s degree in English literature, endless hallways packed with doors of opportunity would materialize before my eyes and invite me into sweet, comfortable career-hood. My impressive GPA and extracurricular activities would make me the star of all the job fairs, my literary analysis skills the talk of the town.

Much to my surprise, no impeccably dressed individual appeared at graduation to offer me a sign-on bonus, a job of any sort, or even a part-time, unpaid internship. I could have sworn my high school counselors explained that was what was supposed to happen after college. Instead, I walked across a stage, shook some stranger’s hand and went home with a slip of paper bound by ribbon that read, “This is not your actual diploma.”

Since graduation in 2007 I have worked six jobs and two internships in five very different fields. Similar to how I thought I wanted to be an archaeologist in middle school and a professional athlete in high school, my interests have changed dramatically. Thank god.

I have worked as a landscaper, a professional firefighter, a tutor, a high school English teacher, and now a writer. I have earned two college degrees and I am working toward a third. I am proud of my life’s course because, despite its unconventional trajectory, I am now confident about what I love doing and I know how to make a living doing it.

The record underemployment rates glaring in the faces of countless Millennials could be our generations’ biggest blessing. If nothing else, suffering a terrible job forces you to develop a purpose in life, even if it is out of spite. And defining your life’s purpose is the first step to being happy.




(Originally published here on The Good Men Project.) 

With marriage proposals comes an endless train wreck of clichés, tired romantic gestures, and all-around stupid attempts to be cute, unique, or impressive. There are few momentous occasions that only happen once in our lives, and understandably, those moments are often terrifying and exciting and a really big deal. We love to dress these moments up in attempt to make them picture-perfect. Deep down we all think that there exists some perfect combination of romantic elements that, when combined in the right sequence, would make anyone say yes.

I found it the day I proposed.

The weather was immaculate; the air warm and inviting, and the ocean breeze just strong enough to be refreshing but not chilly. She has no idea I am about ask her the most important question of my life. We are surrounded by our dearest friends, and everyone is in extraordinary good-cheer, and doing a marvelous job of keeping up the charade of simply being on a meaningless yet scenic group picnic. There is a lull in the conversation.

Her attention shifts away from me for just a moment. The sun catches her hair. This is it. My heart races. I get down on one knee and remove the small velvet box I have been hiding in my sock all day. Everyone else simultaneously pulls out their phones and point them at her. At us. She turns back around. I pop open the box and catch the look in her eyes as she realizes what is happening. I try to push the words I have been practicing in my mind for months through the biggest grin that has ever graced my smug face.
 
Suddenly, before I can get a single word out, a seagull swoops down out of nowhere and snatches the ring from my hand. In complete shock and utter disbelief, I swing wildly at the bird-devil and luckily catch it by the foot. In a flurry of feathers and screams I wrestle the flapping mess back to earth. Driven by sheer adrenaline I try to pry the ring from the beast’s beak, slicing my fingers in the process. It screeches. She screeches. I screech the loudest. People take pictures. The ungodly strong bastard rips a chunk of flesh from my hand as I pry the ring out of its mouth. Everyone looks on in sheer terror. Blinded by fury, I crush the life out of the damned bird with my bare hands. I try to present my diamond trophy to my wife-to-be in bloodied hands through a cloud of feathers. She finds it oddly romantic. Church bells chime in the distance.  

This is one of countless anxiety dreams I had leading up to my actual proposal. In my mind I have dropped the ring off the cliff, I have tripped and fallen off the cliff, and I have tripped, comically stumbled and pushed her off the cliff. I have been struck by lightning. I have fought hurricane-strength weather, swarms of giant bees, and ninjas. But to this day, I see it as a good sign that of all my fears and nightmares, her saying no never crossed my mind. Of that, I was certain.

In the end, the secret to the art of a successful marriage proposal is simply that – knowing. 

I am a cinephile. I especially love the art of character creation. A perfectly constructed character thrives in our cultural narrative with as much life as a real person. Sometimes more. Everyone can easily rattle off their favorite characters from film and television. Unfortunately, shaping a character is a difficult process, and one which has led to a watering down of the human condition as it is represented on TV.

Of paramount importance in creating a character, is making him relatable. As a man, I look to male characters in search of shared interests, motivations, emotions, and struggles. To that end, I often give up in frustration. There are only nine men on the television any more, and none of them are men I aspire to emulate.

The Villain: Of all male characters portrayed in film, this one needs the least introduction. He is the broken shell of a man, the bad guy we all love to hate. The Villain is most often the embodiment of a singular evil motivation we, as viewers, can all collectively agree is, well, bad. Greed, envy, power, and chaos are the most common incentives for The Villain. He is simply an antagonist – a placeholder for evil, who shares no semblance to any men we know in real life, and who will most certainly die in the end.

The Asshole: This is the bad guy we all know. He is loud and mean and emotionally compromised. He’s the one who kicks the stray dogs in your neighborhood and doesn’t understand that merging on the freeway should operate like a zipper – one car after another. He curses too much, wears asshole clothes, and drives an asshole car. In film and TV he is the boss, the school bully, the angry ex-boyfriend, or the cheating husband. He takes many forms, but his underlying purpose is the same; he is the guy we all want to punch in the face in real life, but never do. Sometimes he wins, but only the small victories.

The Weasel: The Weasel is a special breed of man who we almost hate as much as The Asshole. The Weasel is the underling of The Villain or The Asshole. He is a bottom feeder, who hasn’t the power, character, or strength to foster his own success and happiness. Satisfied to serve someone mightier than himself, he slinks through life. He has a slimy personality and depends on manipulation. He is willing to say and do anything to win over the approval of whoever has power over him in the moment.

The Badass: The bad-boy trope is legendary. The good at heart, but tough-skinned guy who can’t get his life together wins women’s hearts but inevitably fails under the weight of his own character flaws and lack of emotional depth. He was hurt so the world must hurt. Women want to fix him. Men want his stoicism, reputation, and motorcycle, but that is about it.  

The Oaf: The Oaf is a lovable idiot. He is quickly becoming one of the most common male television personalities. He is the father on so many sitcoms, the doofus in the background of infomercials who can't operate a roll of paper towels. He serves little more purpose than comic relief and to give viewers a masculine object to simultaneously like and feel sorry for. The Oaf has a fairly good life but his looks, laziness, clumsiness, or lack of intelligence holds him back from reaching his aspirations.  

The Underdog: The man we love to see win, but rarely seems to do so under his own power. The Underdog has little confidence and less self-advocacy. His ascent to greatness requires a catalyst beyond his control, and constant external motivation. While he usually prevails, often with the assistance of The Best Friend, he simply can’t do so on his own.

The Pretty Boy: Simply put, The Pretty Boy is eye-candy. His only purpose is to look good in comparison to the other men on screen. Rarely is he attributed anything other than a rocking body. He plays the small but critical role of reminding all men that no matter what you do, there is a better looking guy out there who can steal your girl with a smile and eighteen-pack abs.

The Best Friend: This is the only male character with the integrity and moral aptitude we feel good about relating to. But the most defining characteristic of the best friend is that he is a supporting character. He is the one who makes the ultimate sacrifice. He consistently puts others before himself. While his exceptional loyalty and kindness often benefit everyone around him, he can’t seem to make center stage. He is a walking reminder that nice guys finish last.    

The Action Hero: Kicking ass and taking names in the service of justice, love, and America. The Action Hero has the uncanny ability to take multiple hits and keep on swinging. He doesn’t cry and only bleeds when he wants to. We root for him because he is extraordinarily good at everything he does, not because he is necessarily a good person. His inter and intra-personal skills are in absolute shambles, but it is always okay, because he doesn’t need help.  




*Originally published here at The Good Men Project 

Being grown up and acting like a grown-up are two very different things. As you begin to mature into an adult, you start to feel like you've figured everything out, whether you actually have or not. It isn't easy to be a mature man. Take it from a guy who is still trying to fully figure it out. But I've experienced quite a bit on my journey to adulthood. Along the way I've picked up some insight into what separates a mature man from just a grown-up boy. Here are some tips on how to be a mature man.

1. Own your mistakes and learn from them

Nobody needs to tell you that we all make mistakes. Making mistakes is an enormous part of life. In fact, the types of mistakes you have made and how you have handled them may be the most accurate indicator as to the quality of your character. Mature men make just as many mistakes as anyone else, the remarkable difference is that the mature man will recognize his mistake as such, and take exact measures to right any wrongs caused by his mistakes. A grown man should never project his mistakes onto others, but own them, work to understand them, and learn from them as to not repeat them in the future.

2. Always stand up for what is right, especially when it is the difficult thing to do

A mature man will understand and learn from his mistakes. A great man will understand and learn from the mistakes of others and work actively toward righting any wrongs perpetrated by others in his presence. There is no such thing as a silent hero. Too often does violence feed on the silence of the masses. Passive bystanders to unjust actions are just as immoral as those who commit the transgression. No matter how socially uncomfortable or inconvenient it feels, a mature man never allows verbal or physical violence to go ignored. Never believe somebody else will deal with it. You will deal with it, or nobody will.

3. Get lost

Seriously, get lost. Set aside time in your regular routine to get genuinely lost. Go somewhere you have never been, turn off your phone, and simply walk around for a while. Interact with the world as you were meant to, face-to-face, with no presuppositions or back story. This could be as simple as shopping in a store you've never been to, or going on a destination-less hike in the woods. Personal growth is something you come across when you are far away from your comfort zone. A mature man does not settle into a singular understanding of himself or his surroundings. He is cultured and experienced. There is no such thing as a bad experience. You may have experiences that you wish not to repeat, but that does not mean they lack value. Get out in the world and try something new. Go somewhere you have never been, eat something you suspect you will hate, and talk to that stranger on the bus. Every new experience adds to who you are.

4. Speak and act honestly

You will save yourself much heartache and even more headaches if you simply say what you mean when you mean it. Men are notorious for swallowing their emotions and suppressing how they really feel. Doing this does nobody justice. Speak what you feel with confidence. You will respect yourself for it and so will others.

5. Work toward something greater than yourself

Find something you are genuinely passionate about and work to make it a part of your everyday life. There are a million and one ways to get involved in your community. Find something that not only makes you happy but helps those around you. You will come to find meaning and power in your work.



(This column was originally published here on The Good Men Project)

I was recently faced with a unique dilemma that I would like to think tortures all men at some point in their lives. It happened in the bath and shower aisle of my local supermarket. I was there because I had just run out of deodorant and needed to resupply. Normally, this was an uneventful process. I have been buying the same flavor of deodorant as long as I have had the money to do so and the armpits to use it on. Long story short, they didn't carry my go-to scent and I had a substantial life crisis. 

I don't consider myself the type of person that has strict brand loyalties, but it dawned on me that day that I am apparently very particular about how I smell. And I have only ever smelled like one thing. Original Scent. That was my home base, my comfort zone. On this day I was faced with the decision to smell like body odor or some mysterious flavor of armpit lubricant. So I started browsing. 

Swagger, Anarchy, Power, Fresh, Glacier, and Hypnosis. These were the flavors I was faced with and I hadn't the slightest clue what any of them smelled like. I imagine swagger smells like an eighth grade dance. Anarchy probably smells like wet concrete and tear gas. Who knows what power smells like? Donald Trump? Having hypnotic smelling armpits sounds like the worst super power ever. Fresh and Glacier were the only scents that seemed to gravitate toward the more logical side of the spectrum. But then I realized that fresh is simply an adjective. If it smelled like a fresh meadow or freshly baked cookies that would be great. But it just as easily could have smelled like a fresh pile of shit or fresh sardines. I went with Glacier. How bad could a glacier really smell anyway?

As I turned to leave I noticed, for what felt like the first time in my life, the enormous variety of smells available to women. The one shelf of men’s products shriveled into nothingness in comparison to the vast sea of women’s shampoos, deodorants and body washes. Every flower, fruit, and vegetable known to man was represented on those shelves.

At what point in our development as men did we collectively decide that it was considered too feminine to smell like a flower, or a fruit, or a vegetable? For that matter, when did we become so insecure about our smells that we had to invent hardcore, nonexistent smells like Anarchy and Power? I believe it is time we reclaim some of the real world smells before too long or we will soon be limited to smelling like overly stressed “masculine” things like Tool Box®  or Bacon Grease®.   

I won’t overstep my bounds and assume we can instantly reach into the flower department and start claiming scents, but can we at least draw the line at vegetables? I mean, artichokes are all spiny and punk rock and delicious. They are a giant thistle for crying out loud. They are basically weeds. Can we at least reclaim them? What about avocados? They are manly as hell. 

In today’s media-saturated world, everyone must keep a sharp eye on the messages being fed to them. Sorting out the negative messages from the positive messages is an active and ongoing endeavor. For guys, the negative messages floating around are sometimes hard to spot, and even more difficult to interpret. Putting men down as a group has become commonplace and acceptable. When clumped together as a single entity, men are often presented as violent, clumsy, uneducated fools with only one thing on their minds. Strangely enough, the undermining of men is often done in the name of empowering women. Take, for example, the post from the Women column of online magazine Elite Daily, “26 Reasons Why Men Are Exactly Like Drugs.”

The author of this article lists twenty-six comparisons between men and drugs. With inspired insight such as:

They put you through ups and downs and string you out.

They leave scars all over you.

They impair your judgment and your clarity.

They deceive you into thinking things are great.

They have horrible comedowns that can’t be assuaged by water.

Men are nothing like drugs. Women are nothing like drugs. No group of people is anything similar to drugs. Little effort is required to like something on Facebook, but the fact that more than 1,400 people liked this post is disturbing. At the very least, they must agree with the general idea suggested in the title, that men are like drugs. Or, to some degree, they agree with the overall sentiment that men are, as a group, life-altering forces that will ruin your mind and body.

Writers of women’s columns who insist on demonizing guys probably don’t realize the negative messages they are sending to young men still developing their sense of identity, not to mention young women who look to mature women for guidance with what to look for in a man. What message does it send to boys if women are so comfortable undermining men as a group in such a blatant way?

Any young man who understood these comparisons to be commonplace characteristics of men and therefore acted upon them, would grow to be a horrible person. All of these comparisons are very serious indicators of a terribly unhealthy relationship. Nobody should be subjected to a relationship that matches these descriptions, despite their gender.

Why is it that men collectively inherit these vile traits? This unfair and inaccurate description doesn’t match a single man I know, but when prescribed to men as group, readers nod their heads in agreement. At best, this article is one among thousands of shoddy rants pandering to the lowest common denominator – designed to grab the attention of angry women looking for a villain.

 When reading articles such as these, young men need to remember to explore the author’s occasion for writing. Perhaps her purpose is to feel better about her bad decisions with men or to commiserate with fellow women in an attempt to justify her past choices. Whether or not this article was written with intentions of being humorous, do not make the mistake of understanding it as the voice of the masses.

This article not a reflection of the average man’s character or the average woman’s opinion. Never make the mistake of treating these messages as such.

Gentlemen, be wary of these messages and the people who eat them up. Beneath rants and comedy pieces like this lie true opinions and prejudices. No good reason to demoralize an entire group of people in this way exists. Misogynistic jokes are only funny to misogynists; racist jokes are only funny to racists.

No list of analogies encapsulates all men. Masculinity is not that simple, despite what you might regularly read or hear. Do not make the mistake of only living up to the depressingly low standards writers of these articles expect of you. Hold true to your values. Shape your actions to reinforce those values and work toward making the world a better place for others. Use your words and the power of your voice to help others do the same. Only you can effectively define your character. 


(originally published on Young Men's Nation)