'Man up'

I first heard the term “man up” in Clint Eastwood’s latest film, Gran Torino, which the director also starred in. His character, Walt Kowalski, a disgruntled Korean War veteran, forms a bond with Thao, his teenage Hmong neighbor from Laos. At a crucial point in the movie he tells Thao, “C’mon, we need to man you up,” and proceeds to acquaint him with the ways of the rough and tumble grown-up man’s world of trash-talking, back-slapping, and beer-guzzling camaraderie.

I started thinking to myself, is that really how growing up for a man is perceived to be: a transformation into a tough and macho self? Do we measure male maturity by degree of machismo — how filthily one can swear and how much beer he can down?

So I dug deep into my memory bank and revisited the memories of a friendship with the most macho of men I have ever come to know. Let’s call him Tom. The one thing that had struck everyone who came across Tom was his happy disposition. It was contagious; he infected everyone with his positive take on life and his sense of humor that managed to turn even the direst of situations tolerable.

Tom was a businessman, a numbers guy who was also cultured and worldly. He was extremely knowledgeable about the finer things in life: art, literature, music, film, cuisine and wine. With his good looks and exceptional qualities, he could have easily been the boor, or the snob that people love to hate; instead his “machismo,” which kept him rough around the edges, neutralized whatever propensity for snobbery and extreme refinement there might have been.

Once, at one of those pricey, formal restaurants where the linen was crisp, white and heavily starched; where the silver was buffed to a gleam and the crystal stemware polished until it resonated with sound with the slightest friction; and where even the waiters stuck their noses in the air because the ambience in which they moved dictated such demeanor, we were seated at a corner table and were immediately addressed by a sommelier who delivered a mouthful on which bottle of wine should be had with which dish.

Tom graciously thanked him for his help but already had a specific type of wine in mind and promptly asked for it. The waiter then brought it tableside with all the pomp and circumstance associated with wine service. He brought in a silver wine bucket, draped the bottle with starched white linen, and with a few deft turns of his wrist, uncorked it.  He presented the cork to Tom and expected him, as restaurant etiquette dictates, to sniff it and maybe nod in appreciation. But Tom, being the man that he was, handed the cork back to him and said in Filipino, “Okay na, salamat, ibulsa mo na lang yan at paki buhos mo na sa baso yung wine.” (That’s okay, thank you, just slip the cork in your pocket and please pour out the wine.)

The waiter did a double take, obviously frazzled and seemingly unsure of what he had heard. But he eventually did what he was told and slipped the cork in his vest pocket, the look of regret plastered on his face. He then rested the bottle against his forearm and with a slight dip of his torso, leaned the bottle over to Tom’s glass and poured a bit of the wine for sampling. By this time I was on the edge of my seat, anxious to hear what Tom might say next because he had that familiar smirk on his face that was always a harbinger of naughty things to come. 

He, again, smiled at the waiter and said, “Wag na, salamat, paki buhos mo na lahat at uhaw na kami.” (Never mind the taste test, thank you, just please pour on because we are thirsty.) At this point the waiter was unable to contain himself and erupted in an oh-so-controlled single burst of laughter. Tom and I joined in but the waiter caught himself and instantly reverted to that I-am-highly-efficient-and-therefore-must-remain-serious look.

I asked him, “Why did you that, Tom?” He answered, “I don’t understand why people want to complicate their lives. They ordered the wine; they should drink it. It’s not like you can return or exchange it if you don’t like the smell of the cork or the taste of the wine, not here in the Philippines at least. It’s all so pretentious. I want to give the waiter a break and I want to drink my wine.”

There it is, served straight up — truth in its purest form — not on the rocks, not watered down, and with no mixers.

Once a group of us, including Tom, were discussing the merits of French lingerie and all the women concurred that, yes, French lingerie is justified in price, quality, aesthetic value, seduction value, and the very purpose for which it was invented: to make a woman dressed in it feel good. Only Tom objected. He said, “Why spend that much for something that immediately comes off? Sure it’s all pretty but if you ask me the only thing I say when I am with a woman in expensive French lingerie is, ‘Take it off.’”

On the matter of skin care — expensive, anti-aging creams, toners, sun block — for middle-aged men he had this to say: “I can’t be bothered; it’s too much trouble.” On fashion he lamented: “Why would I spend on articles of clothing, footwear or wristwatches vulgar amounts of money that can feed entire villages in Ethiopia when I can get the same merchandise for much less?”

The antithesis of Tom is Harry, also a dear friend, who is very refined in his ways. He takes pains in grooming himself; he spends 20 minutes fixing his hair, applying layer upon layer of product to get it to fall across his forehead exactly the way he wants. He is passionate about his image and everything that defines it: clothing, shoes, accessories, car, home, even the right girlfriend, and doesn’t mind spending a bundle on them. Like Tom, he is cultured and worldly but is also very serious and reserved. He will not be caught dead chuckling or guffawing; he simply smiles when something is funny. He is not one to joke around or laugh at himself. He is anal retentive about social graces and a stickler for social convention. He would have played the wine-tasting scenario with the waiter to the hilt, smelling the cork and the wine before swirling the glass and splashing it around his mouth before the eventual swallow and final approval. He would have enacted that French lingerie seduction scenario to cinematic proportions, making the woman channel the biblical Salome in her dance of the seven veils. 

Tom and Harry are polar opposites.

So who is more of a man than the other? When we say we need to “man someone up,” do we mean we need to turn him into more of a Tom or more of a Harry? The answer, I believe, boils down to personal taste. Again, as in most everything, the answer lies in the beholder.

According to Heidi Muller, an online relationship correspondent, “Although women hate to admit it, they love men who are somewhat macho, strong and confident. They don’t want guys who are submissive and passive; they want men that go for what they want, to have confidence, and to be aggressive.”

She adds that, “The type of woman dictates the type of man she wants because men make women feel more like women by being their opposites.” Following Muller’s theory, then, we should expect a tomboyish, athletic type of woman to partner up with a metrosexual man and a girly girl to gravitate toward someone who is über macho.

I follow Muller’s logic, but whether we buy her theory or not, I think the bottom line about “manning up” is for one to mature into the mold of his own personality, not to try to be someone else in an effort to “macho up” but to grow into a responsible, adult version of oneself. There is nothing quite as tragic as when one tries to fight his own nature because it will come back and bite him in the butt later in a million and one ways. And when it does it will be a complex web of neurotic thoughts and feelings that will be very difficult to unwire. 

The cliché “Be yourself; embrace your nature” just might be the wisest thing we can all take to heart. So guys, when you hear the phrase “man up,” you should probably take it to mean, grow up by being better versions of yourselves.

* * *

Thank you for your letters. You may reach me at cecilelilles@yahoo.com or visit my blog at www.fourtyfied.blogspot.com.