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I Married A Retrosexual
By Margaret Wente
The Globe and Mail
2-14-4



This is the story of how my husband got mugged in Shoppers Drug Mart.
 
It wasn't his fault, I suppose. On certain matters, he is as innocent as a newborn babe. Although he is a master of the infield-fly rule and can lucidly explain the neutral-zone trap, he should not be allowed to roam around unsupervised at cosmetics counters. In other words, he's a genuine guy.
 
Genuine guys are sometimes known as retrosexuals, to distinguish them from metrosexuals, who are men with the good taste of gay men, only they're straight. Metrosexuals are scrupulous about their grooming and are great consumers of men's cosmetic products. They use hair gel. Retrosexuals are scared of hair gel. Some people think that retrosexuals automatically have Neanderthal views about women, but this is not the case. A retrosexual is simply someone who doesn't know the difference between teal and aqua, and frankly couldn't give a damn.
 
Secretly, I've always thought that my husband could stand to be just a little bit more metro. Sometimes I buy him fancy shaving cream or scent with a designer name, and leave it suggestively on his side of the sink. He never gets the hint. He prefers a 10-second dry shave, with a plastic disposable razor and toilet paper to staunch the wounds. If he's really in the mood he shaves with soap. He doesn't like anything too smelly.
 
From time to time, my husband's retrosexuality bothers me. For example, he can't understand why it's time to paint the kitchen when we just painted it nine years ago. He doesn't get why we need expensive matchstick blinds on all the kitchen windows, because we leave them permanently rolled up. He's baffled that my haircuts cost 10 times more than his do, and he thinks massages are a waste of time, unless it was the one he got from two Thai masseuses on the beach at Phuket. There are many things on which we'll never see eye to eye.
 
But there are certain advantages to my husband's retrosexual orientation, and they are large. For example, being completely indifferent to appearance, a retrosexual will never complain that you're putting on weight. This is one of the foundation stones of a good marriage. Also, it's easy to impress him with your culinary prowess. My husband is so grateful to get out of kitchen duty that he brags about my cooking, even though it's usually quite lousy. In return, he allows me to weasel out of certain household tasks like garbage duty and replacing light bulbs. He knows it's his job to talk to plumbers and electricians, man to man. We are aware that we have lapsed into tired gender stereotypes. We don't care. We only wish there were a third gender to clean the kitty litter. We have resolved our primal conflicts over housework by employing a cleaning lady and drastically lowering our (okay, my) standards in between her visits. This is another foundation stone of a good marriage.
 
In a way, I blame myself for the mugging in the Shoppers Drug Mart. I never should have let him go alone. Something similar would have happened if I'd wandered into Future Shop all by myself and tried to buy a fancy new TV. The chance of a good outcome was remote.
 
The trouble began when he noticed that his shins were dry and itchy. (He blames his new ski socks.) So he went off to Shoppers to get something to rub on them. Instead of heading for the aisle filled with Jergens, Keri Lotion and Vaseline, he stopped at the cosmetics counter and asked the cute girl there for her advice. "Moisturizer," he said. "I need moisturizer. I don't want anything smelly. I don't want to smell like a girl."
 
He was quite excited when he got home. "This will do the trick," he said. "It's got lipidins in it." I asked him what lipidins were, and he said the cosmetics consultant told him they lock in your natural moisture. He proudly showed me a small plastic bottle filled with something called Vichy Re-Lipidising Body Cream-Fluid. It came in a special aqua-coloured tote bag. According to the label, the ingredients included genuine Vichy thermal-spa water from France, which probably explains why the bottle cost $43.
 
"You've been mugged," I said.
 
"I thought it was a bit expensive," he confessed. He was too intimidated to complain about the price. He didn't know that he could have got exactly what he needed (minus the Vichy water and the lipidins) for $3.99.
 
Naturally, I've teased him mercilessly ever since. But the truth is, I really have no interest in men who are interested in skin care. That can be my job. In return, I'm happy to let them worry about the oil level in the car. Some might call this sexist. I call it a sensible division of labour, and it is one of the chief benefits of marriage. Each of you can specialize. And each of you can sometimes get away with acting like a helpless bunny.
 
Not surprisingly, my husband was too embarrassed to take back his re-lipidising cream, and today he's probably the only male in the world who's rubbing it on his itchy shins. "I'm locking in my moisture," he says defiantly.
 
I don't have the heart to tell him it makes him smell like a girl.
 
© 2004 Bell Globemedia Publishing Inc. All Rights Reserved.


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