Mini-man

The last vestige of true manliness is gone.

I've never been a Schwarze-negger able to bench twice my weight while simultaneously maxing out the StairMaster. Nor have I ever been a Chuck Norris, able to launch some sucker's teeth into geosynchronous orbit with a sudden round-house leg kick to the jaw. Still less a Ted Nugent who could blow away a 4-ton elephant with a bazooka and then immediately chow down on all the still-warm remains, including the tusks. But I always humored myself that there was a trickle of testosterone in my system, a thimbleful, perhaps, of real-mannishness coursing through my veins. But now I know it cannot possibly be true. If it ever was there, the last drop dissipated away... the day I bought the minivan.

I can claim it was for the wife. I can swear I did it for the children. I can assure you up and down that it was only for the safety, security and well-being of my beloved family. But the truth be told... I really wanted it. I really, really dug the three-row seating. I really, really got into the electric sliding side door. I really, really went nuts for the safety latch system for plugging in the child seats. My humiliation is complete.

I am girly-man. Hear me meow.