I have a friend who is absolutely devastated every time I call him a “girly-guy.” I mean, he gets physically ill, almost to the point of tossing. But he is a girly-guy. I can’t change that, it’s totally out of my control.<\/p>\n
He will, however, never admit it.<\/p>\n
I don’t blame him. It took me until my 30s to figure out I was one. I tried to be a macho-jerk kind of guy, all testeroney and such. I would hang out in my brother’s garage as he explained all about points and condensers and other parts of what I’m pretty sure was the engine in my car.<\/p>\n
I had friends who were hunters and fishermen, telling me about the thirty ot-six they owned or the special pike nymph fly they used to hook brass, or some fish like that. I would nod knowingly and even give them a few “Oh, man! That happened to me, too.”<\/p>\n
I faked it really well. Well, I thought I did. The macho guys knew I wasn’t in their league. And my gay friends knew I was, as one put it, “a six pack or two or being one of them.” I pretty sure they weren’t referring to my chest muscles either.<\/p>\n
So, I slowly came to the realization that I am one of the silent minority. A guy who can think like a girl but who still really likes being a guy for the obvious reasons. I really love women, but not for the same reason major-jerk guys do. I like their company. I think they are a blast to hang with for an evening and I’ll take a room full of fun women than a room full of beer guzzling guys any day to spend an evening with.<\/p>\n
The reason is simple. Women are amazing. Macho guys just don’t see them like I do. Or other girly-guys for that matter. In fact I tell nearly every woman I meet that I think they are amazing. I get them, like a macho jerk never could.<\/p>\n
Now get your minds out of the gutter. I’m not talking about getting them in the Biblical manner. Though I have never been one to complain when that happens.<\/p>\n
I simply love women. For as long as I can remember, I have marveled at them. And yes, I get them.<\/p>\n
I also feel both sad and lucky that those revved up macho jerks don’t know what I know.<\/p>\n
I have heard time and time again how women like girly-guys. They like guys that don’t mind going shopping on occasion or can shed a tear watching a romantic comedy, even after they’ve seen it 10 times.<\/p>\n
They like a guy that can tell the difference between a saute pan and a sauce pan in the kitchen and who has more than three spices in his spice cabinet. I not only like quiche, but can whip a pretty good one up. And I’ve made tiramisu from scratch. I have taught three different significant others how to sew, not sock darning sewing, but full on sewing with a pattern and sewing machine.<\/p>\n
I’m the guy that will remember everything you have ever worn and compliment you when you wear something new. I’ll tell you honestly if something doesn’t look good on you, but not in the GEICO Abe Lincoln kind of way.<\/p>\n
I like to cuddle. I flirt with reckless abandon, even after we’ve been together for a while. I can laugh at the stupidest things with you and I know that when you tell me about something that’s bothering you that you don’t want me to have an answer for you. You just want someone who can listen.<\/p>\n
I’m the one who can overlook the fact that you’re having a fat day or a bad hair day because I look beneath the surface. Don’t have big boobs? Don’t really care. I do care what is inside of you, though.<\/p>\n
So, I’m a girly-guy. And you know what? I’m surrounded by them. All my best male friends are girly-guys, though some would vehemently deny it and immediately go outside to cut some bait. But I know better. And I know women can, too. I know they can spot a girly-guy in an instant. And most want one for a boyfriend or a husband.<\/p>\n
So what if I can’t tell the difference between a 2000 and 2001 Corvette? If it means being the kind of guy your girlfriend, wife or mistress really wants, I think I can live with that. Tough job, but someone has to do it.<\/p>\n
Somewhere in Florida thinking about rearranging the furniture,<\/p>\n
Robb<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
I have a friend who is absolutely devastated every time I call him a “girly-guy.” I mean, he gets physically ill, almost to the point of tossing. But he is a girly-guy. I can’t change that, it’s totally out of my control. He will, however, never admit it. I don’t blame him. It took me […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_et_pb_use_builder":"","_et_pb_old_content":"","_et_gb_content_width":"","footnotes":""},"categories":[10],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-59","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-relationships"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"http:\/\/robzerrvations.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/59","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"http:\/\/robzerrvations.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"http:\/\/robzerrvations.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/robzerrvations.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/robzerrvations.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=59"}],"version-history":[{"count":2,"href":"http:\/\/robzerrvations.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/59\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":329,"href":"http:\/\/robzerrvations.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/59\/revisions\/329"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"http:\/\/robzerrvations.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=59"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/robzerrvations.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=59"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/robzerrvations.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=59"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}