A language that doesn’t change with the times is considered dead. Latin is dead. So is Dalmation.
Therefore, we have a responsibility to keep English alive, if for no other reason than to prevent it from becoming the name of a popular breed of dog.
So I came up with a new word, and here is how it happened.
As I was loading the dishwasher this morning, I found myself thinking about fishing. Although my body was in the kitchen my mind was in the wilderness. There I was, I imagined, high up in the mountains. The air was cool and crisp. A hawk circled above, looking for prey to kill. I was dirty. My dog hiked by my side as I approached the pristine river, running high with snow melt.
Whoa! Almost dropped the plate.
Sadly, I remembered that I wasn’t in the mountains. I wasn’t hiking with my dog. I had a sponge in one hand and dinner ware in the other. But somewhere between coffee cups and silverware it hit me. I am not a metrosexual, as I had feared (see “House Husband”).
I am a testrosexual.
It is a new word that isn’t in the dictionary, but should be. Testrosexuals haven’t lost their sense of masculinity yet – they still feel awkward holding their wife’s purse (metrosexuals don’t, unless the purse clashes with their outfit). Metrosexuals are what they are because they choose to be. If you are a guy and you have polish on your fingernails, you are a metrosexual. Because, unless you have more problems than I am equipped to deal with, no one forced you to go to a manicurist.
Testrosexuals would rather be mowing than vacuuming. They would rather be dressing a deer than folding a dress. They listen to country music on the way to the grocery store. And when they get there, they spend an inordinate amount of time in the tiny little section of the aisle where the tools are hung.
I awoke to a new appreciation of who I am. I still watch football for the game, not the commercials. My blue jeans are baggy – not “form-fitting”. I have (and wear) mountain boots. So even though I sometimes occasionally every once in awhile do household chores, my hunting instincts are alive and well.
So from now on, I won’t mind pitching in around the home front (except for the fact that I am lazy, but that is a topic for another day), because I am in touch with my inner-macho. It’s all about balance. Testrosexuals are balanced.
So go do the dishes, boys. It’s OK. And if you begin to feel that you are losing your mojo, relax. Step back and picture yourself up in the mountains.
If you shut your eyes, the faucet sounds kind of like a river.