groom me, baby


I don’t think that my wife holds much hope that I’ll ever develop into a full-blown metrosexual.

I don’t really understand how she can arrive at that presumption.

I bath.  I brush.  I trim my nose hairs sometimes.  I even take my pocketknife and clean the grease out from under my nails.

How much more obsessive can I be when it comes to personal hygiene?

I guess I’m most comfortable in “scruffy dog” mode….paint spattered and wearing my oldest clothes, bearded and subconsciously unkempt….like some kind of nomadic and homeless hippy.

(“Subconsciously unkempt”….I like that.  It would be a great addition to any resume.)

But…I’m not like that.

I think that except for my lack of consciousness of grooming product use, I’m about as close to being a metrosexual as you can get without having any real skill or interest in that area.

I’m a dirtbag metrosexual, if you want to know the truth.

I’m just kidding about being a metrosexual.  I’m not really sure exactly what that entails.

I think that there’s a sweet spot that I approach where I can be scruffy enough to be able to live with myself comfortably…and presentable enough that I don’t attract any major attention in the “self-improvement appearance areas” that the people around me monitor.

“Are you going to be wearing that?”

But you can get in trouble if you think you’re beating the system by looking refined on the outside…but wearing some raggedy underwear to maintain a sense of scruffy individuality.

(They say that in the event of an accident, that wearing clean underwear should be one of your top priorities. I think that you have other things on your mind when an accident comes around.)

I like looking good.  I like it when that happens.

But what I really like is looking good on my terms.

When I’m feeling appropriately funky scruffy…and my family lets me go out into public like that…it feels like a real victory.

It’s probably a pretty hollow victory, I suppose.

Self perception isn’t always one of my strong suits.

I can be reformed, I suppose.

A starched shirt, expensive watch, a nice bottle of 75$ aftershave, some talc for the secret spots, and some polished shoes that don’t track in any chicken “leavings”…I could be as metrosexy as anyone who ever walked the face of the planet.

If I did that, though….if I went over to the “dark side”…I suppose the response would somehow still be …

“You’re going to be wearing that?!  I thought you were going to mow the lawn?”

If I can pull off this metrosexy transformation, I’ll never have to do any real work again in my life.

The hardest things I’ll have to do are requesting the offshore money transfer and calling the secretary for another double mocha latte.

I’ll be like the lady with the 5 inch fingernails that curl back on themselves and look all yellow when you can see underneath the polish and who really kind of grosses you out when you stop and think about it later….I’ll be like the lady who has to call someone over to open her can of Coke because she can’t do it with her gross yellow nails.

People will understand that, even though I’m eager and willing to do any of the dirty work required, my lifestyle choice doesn’t support it.

People will understand my new metrosexy ways.

That’s kind of exciting.  I’ll have to be sure and brush my teeth before I leave for work this morning.



About Peter Rorvig

I'm a non-practicing artist, a mailman, a husband, a father...not listed in order of importance. I believe that things can always get better....and that things are usually better than we think.

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