This coronavirus is putting a crimp in my masculine world, and my wife’s from her feminine domain, because we are not free to move about the country. The thing is, I sort of have this illusion of myself as a roaring lion. And with the loudest burps I can conjure, I am ruler of all that I survey in my kingdom. And she also finds it frustrating to keep up with the Tasmanian devil whirlwind of messes that I am powerless to stop creating.

So now we have an uneasy truce, détente if you will, as I slink around, peeking from behind corners, trying to stay off of her radar screen because, macho as I pretend to be, I find it unbearable to be the victim of her incessant eye rolls that feel more like poison darts from a blow gun.

When the world is not shut down, men march forth fearlessly, hiding behind three-day beards, to stadiums, gyms, cigar dens, and, along with other brave warriors, hunting poor defenseless animals running wild in the forest, mostly because women despise us being underfoot all the friggin’ time.

We need to create clever evasive maneuvers to preserve our fragile masculinity and our dignity, such as it is.

Tom Mitrakos

Fox Chapel

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