The She-man is a brand of male that is becoming ever more prevalent in the daily lives of the average female. Unfortunately, this term of “She-man” does not describe one of my beloved gay, male friends with whom I can discuss the world and all its intricacies while adding plastic gems to random items of clothing and accessories. In contrast, it is a term to describe a fully heterosexual man who prides himself on the expanse of his emotions, and the fact that he enjoys watching The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants 2 alone on rainy afternoons. I will admit to you that my experience with men in general is limited at best. However, my experience with the She-man is at a level where I could graduate from Community College with honours on the subject. I always thought a more sensitive type of man would be an intriguing and an almost optimal choice, but my more recent exposure has left me hoping that my days with the She-man are soon to be coming to a close. The experience that I have acquired in the presence of a she-man is the type that makes me cringe at the sight of a guy picking up a guitar and playing me a song inspired by, and written about, myself. It’s the type of experience where great, sweeping romantic gestures, such as adventures to secret locations and unexpected gifts, only prove to make me nervous and do nothing to secure my affections. The type of experience that makes one of my first questions for any potential romantic suitor something along the lines of, “Are you, or have you ever been, involved in activities having to do with acting, singing, composing, sculpting and/or (but not limited to) interpretive dancing?”. Unfortunately, if the fellow answers yes to any or all parts of this question, my more recent social history has proven that there is a high chance that he is a stereotypical preteen girl underneath his adorably artsy exterior. So what if your newest love interest has a habit of PMS-ing more than you? Personally, if I wanted to be dating one of my girl friends, in this day and age, I would be. So what is to be done? Shall we banish all feeling men to the ends of the known earth for another generation to deal with? Shall we hold riots against any new romantic flick promoting the She-man? For myself, I plan on taking a simple, yet hopefully effective, She-man hiatus until I come up with a better plan of action towards this inconvenient evil. And when the one, seemingly innocent, ballad dedicated to yourself by your next She-man turns into a three-volume musical collection and each song strangely depicts everything from your small hiccupping laughter to the odd freckle under your left eye – unless you enjoy the idea of a personal and attentive bibliographer – I suggest the option of running, and not walking in the opposite direction.
