Macho, Macho Man

Among the abundant flights my emotions take me on, here is one uncontrollable knee-jerk reaction that I may hate the most: Despising certain people upon sight, and for no sellable reason.

Unfortunately, one of those people—OK, there’s more than one but I’ll just take this one as the prime example—attends some of my same regular meetings. He is a tall chubby young bald man with the face of a boy and demeanor of a pubescent. He wears baggy jeans and ballcaps to office meetings, cradles both a Blackberry and an iPhone, and does the big-hand handshake with the cop and the oversized city planner he usually nestles in between. He sits with his legs spread wide like he’s giving birth to a wife-abusing super-bowl football, and talks deep-voiced about street infrastructure to back up that he’s a professional engineer…though really he’s clown in hardhat clothing.

See what I mean?  Nowhere in this rant will you find an actual reason to loathe him. Guys like him are a dime a dozen. I guess that’s part of why I hate him even more for being recently engaged—because men who are this stupid shouldn’t be singled out by any woman enough to marry.  Apart from the engagement, I can surmise that the bride-to-be also must be a dolt to be able to tolerate him, as we all overlook the premature hair loss and steadily inflating spare tire. I hear their ceremony is going to be in a reception hall on the south shore of Long Island. How enchanting. You can almost hear the Buttafuoco family applauding for them over open-bar bottles of Bud Light (for men) and rum-and-cokes (for the ladies).

 

I think it is a mutual disdain. I can’t have this much hatred for someone without it coming out of my pores, and he has sat next to me a few times before. Of course, a key trait of male cluelessness is that short-haired women go unnoticed. So then, I guess it’s my secret.