This just in: The era of the metrosexual, that "Details" reading, Abercrombie-on-the-weekend wearing, sushi-lovin' man is over.
Oh, great. My husband never even got to try it, and it's already over. This seems unfair. It's not for lack of knowing real-live metrosexuals. We've even socialized with a few on a regular basis. But, from the beginning, my husband didn't exactly embrace the notion.
When we visited the cosmetics wonderland that is Ulta, I noted the huge section of skin and hair products just for men. In contrast, my husband noted that the Barnes & Noble across the street would probably have the newest rotisserie baseball magazine and sprinted out of the store like his clothes were on fire.
"Roto ball," for those of you who don't know, is when you draft real players for your pretend team and then your pretend team plays other pretend teams, and when the real season is over, you see where your pretend team ranks, and you celebrate by going out with the other guys to buy top-drawer exfoliating products.
OK, I made that last part up. But if metrosexuals, which just couldn't stand the test of time, were into roto-ball, that would be the big reward: skin care and lots of it!
Metrosexuals spend a great deal of time fretting about sun exposure (how much is too much?), the escalating price of arugula and finding the perfect Chilean merlot.
You can spot a metrosexual dad a mile away. Not because he's wearing one of those silly nursing bras for men a la Robert de Niro in "Meet the Fokkers" but usually because he's bragging about the "hint of chipotle" he uses in his salad dressing recipe to entice little Audubon to eat more veggies.
But lately, the expression "Man up!" has been overheard, rather like a new battle cry. Men are urged to eat manly hamburgers dripping with Paris Hilton, to avoid toasting beers by the top of the bottle because that's too much like kissing and similar rubbish.
It's not that I don't welcome the reappearance of the manly men. To be honest, the metrosexuals just made me feel guilty. Their skin was smoother than mine, and it irked me to hear them carping about sheets with low thread-counts. "Go change some oil!" I wanted to shriek every time one of them sidled up to me at a picnic and wanted to discuss the latest Oprah book club pick with me.
Ultimately, the men got tired of shaving, sharing and shopping. These things are cyclical, of course. (Remember the sweat lodges of the 1980s for men in search of the hairy primate within?) My hubby might catch the metrosexual bug on the next go-round, but I doubt it. He'll always think Chipotle is a left-handed reliever throwing in the Dominican leagues.