Are you now, or have you ever been, a metrosexual?
I have heard a great deal, more than I wish to know really, about being “metrosexual,” a trend word for today’s narcissistic, moisturizing, style-fluent urban man. One hopes the word does not become a permanent part of the modern vocabulary, since metrosexual has all the charm and glamour of a porn shop near a bus terminal.
The category is said to include the actors Johnny Depp and Brad Pitt, soccer star David Beckham, who is married to a Spice Girl, and Democratic presidential candidate Howard Dean, who, in an infamous style straddle, said he wished to be identified with the pickup-driving, Confederate-flag-waving crowd. (Can’t you just see them hell-raising with a case of Michelob Ultra Light, splattering astonished immigrants with Kiehl’s Rosewater Toner #1, while screaming aaaargh at the top of their lungs?) Of course, like any clever neologism depicting a socio-cultural type–hippie, yuppie, buppie–the word metrosexual provokes a certain degree of self-examination: Am I one of them?
On the Web sites for ESPN and ABC there are questionnaires, with scoring systems, to help you establish whether or not you are a metrosexual. Questions include: Do you moisturize daily? How many pairs of shoes do you own? Do you wax your legs?
I would add to those: Are you able to sit through entire episodes of “Will & Grace,” even when there are sports programs available on other channels? Do you identify with characters portrayed by Julia Roberts? And the clincher: Are you now wearing–or have you ever worn–any clothing made by Prada?
Personally, I prefer Old Spice to Posh Spice. And I do not moisturize, unless you include washing with Dove. But there have been moments when I showed disturbing signs of metrosexuality, and lately I have begun to wonder about myself.
For example, recently I got my six-pack back. And I’m not talking Budweiser.
At my advanced age (let’s say, over 45), it took a lot of hard work–spinning classes three times a week, millions of weird yogalike crunches–but the washboard abs have gradually, amazingly returned. A young bodybuilder who works out at my gym recently remarked that I looked “cut.” That was about the nicest thing anyone has said to me in a decade. I am tempted to wear belly shirts.
However, one has to draw the line. And I will not be shaving my armpits, as some NBA stars are doing. There’s something creepy about that.
A few years ago I began singing first tenor in a light-opera company, which I realize practically reeks of metrosexuality. In fact, when we are romping around onstage, with our pancake and eyeliner and Victorian costumes, the whole spectacle is positively gay. I also have shown a certain, shall we say, feminine interest in fashion. I learned long ago that the women’s department was vastly more interesting than the men’s. I mean, slit skirts and strappy heels–not to mention spaghetti straps, stilettos, beaded boleros!–are a helluva lot sexier and more compelling than button-down shirts and brogues.
Men’s style I have always found to be a bit of a bore. In this, I believe, I show signs of being “retrosexual,” a term for those of us–gay and straight–who continue to hold a special reverence for women’s glamour and find it hard to get overly interested, let alone obsessed, with the male’s sartorial kit.
If the metrosexual is, by definition, a straight male, then there is a certain point where he has to realize that male vanity is essentially a turn-off to women. Narcissus, remember, fell in love with his own reflection, leaving that gorgeous nymph Echo to languish.
So I know the difference between Gucci and Pucci, “designer” and haute couture. At the same time, I know what it means to “hit behind the runner” and how to execute a pick and roll.
I use power tools. But, I confess, I have always loved Judy Garland. So what does that make me?
Just call me a skinny old queen who happens to be straight. But a metrosexual? Never!
