I rolled to a stop at an intersection as the light turned red the other day. At the same time, a man left the sidewalk on the right side of the road and passed through the crosswalk in front of my car, nailing me in my driver’s seat with a steely glare. Okay, what gives? Was he reacting to my I LOVE TENNIS vanity plate? Maybe he was a rabid pickleballer.
He was a big burly, skull-and-crossbones tattooed, working man in a protective helmet, like Bigfoot in a reflective vest. Come to think of it, he even walked like Bigfoot. He probably smelled like Bigfoot too but I had my car window up.
At first I thought, hey buddy, what did I do? Are you angry at me? You don’t even know me. Why are you gawking at me like that?
Then I saw what he was apparently hoping I wouldn’t. The guy was trying to hide a roll of toilet paper he was covertly carrying in one hand and at the same time, double dog daring me to crack a smile.
In the twitch of an eyeball, I noticed that he was walking away from a mini-market and toward a construction site port-a-johnny on the other side of the road. Two plus two told me that he was preparing to do a little normal human business and as a woman AND a stranger, I was duly prohibited from acknowledging this in any way. Unwritten law. You know, social mores. Evidently he thought it unmanly of him to be human in this respect and if I noticed his, well, shall we say, softer side, he might have to turn in his masculinity card.
As if having a bit of humanity makes you less of a real man.
Bah. Reminded me of a scary-looking-but-beneath-it-all endearing guy in my neighborhood – a big, brawny, retired and impressively decorated former Marine special forces operative who wore his multiple tats and Rambo veneer proudly while walking his wife’s dainty little white fluffy doggie around the neighborhood. This Marine was decisive, intentional, and serious with every step. Like he was assigned the most important operation imaginable. The tiny canine at his feet appeared to be trying to march just like her sergeant. It was awfully hard to not salute when you passed them.
Macho men with poufy poodles … what’s not to grin about?
Okay. This, of course, begs the question: What makes a real man, anyway?
I suppose the answer would be different for everyone, but for me, I’d say it’s a dollop of compassion beneath the otherwise rough and world-hardened exterior; a little grease of caring to keep the cogwheels of masculinity turning; a dab of forgiveness toward others when things aren’t done as quickly or precisely as he thinks they should.
Vulnerability, gratitude, and a deep sense of humility are a must. And the courage to expose these usually hidden traits to the ones who love you most.
In short, a soft nougat center beneath that hardened outer shell. Yep. That’s what speaks real man to me.
Okay, BFFs, your turn: What do you think constitutes a real man?
P.S. In case you’re wondering, as difficult as it was, I strove hard to not allow one smidgeon of a smile to break on my face with the dude glaring at me over the TP roll, quickly averting my eyes to study a passing car like it was the president riding by. I thought that at the moment, preserving his dignity was more important than enjoying a good laugh.