Metrosexual: (n.) Modern enlightened, sort of renaissance man. Secure and confident, capable and cool, typically well educated and stylish. — Urban Dictionary
For several years now, I have suspected my husband of being a metrosexual. Wait, let me back up: he is extremely male in the fundamentals, as evidenced by his competitive nature, strong personal will (i.e., nobody puts Derrick in the corner), and drive to succeed. He likes maps and tools and action movies and camping and being a father; he is driven to succeed in his profession and for his family. But just beneath that whole Bill Cosby exterior lurks an accidental Chandler Bing. ‘Cause see my husband, of late, has been buying skinny jeans and using shoe-shapers, wearing pomade and parting his hair (in a specific way and on purpose). He showers twice daily, even though I graciously point out to him that he hasn’t worked out or broken a sweat all day (“have you?”), so why does he need another shower? He replies: “I just like to be clean.” He is a classic germophobe, and last year he bought a dog named Maude. Connect the dots and tell me I’m wrong.
And yet he’s my metrosexual, and I love him. And though he may be buffed to a shine and groomed to a fault, he never ceases to amaze me. Take the rodeo dance contest he begrudgingly entered on our visit to Yellowstone last month. We practically shoved him out there, thinking we’d hoot and holler and embarrass him to death as he is, thankfully, a metrosexual of the reserved variety. Turns out we were aiming too low:
And that, my friends, is what happens when you unleash a Metro in
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