The last page of the Globe and Mail 'A' section -- "Facts and Arguments" -- usually has half a page of random trivia ("Social Studies") paired with a literary attempt by one of my fellow Canadian citizens. The editors in Toronto leave the topic pretty wide open, so the essay today was entitled, "The manly man at the hardware store."
In short, it's the tribulations of a "57-year-old, joyfully (perhaps even rampantly) heterosexual male" who goes to the local Home Depot to buy an ironing board cover (flowered, of course) and has a crisis of masculinity when confronted by his snowblower-buying peers. Don't worry, I'm not going to go on a feminist rant, even though I'm starting to eat feminist theory for breakfast with my oatmeal these days. The point I'll be trying to make for the next few paragraphs has more to do with what (I think) men are good for, not power relations or "sites of resistance".
To make a not-so-obvious leap, I also need to note that the house I live in essentially gutted itself over the last four months: two out of three of our faucets dripped (despite my post-it notes exhorting roommates to put their strength to work when turning off the taps), we stumble in and out of the house because the hallway light died in November, and most of our food prep was done in the cover of darkness. But thanks to Maintenance Man, who was even good enough to run back to the Commonsblock to get spare parts for us, we now live in a watertight, well-lit house. I told Dan yesterday that clean floors make me inexplicably happy -- now that I can see how clean the floor is, I'm actually even happier.
Maintenance Man changed life for us as we know it. I'm finding it hard to begrudge him for embodying masculinity with his huge tool belt, scruffy jeans and big boots while reading in our glowing living room, and a thought struck me: Marta was right all along. She's the former roommate who planned on getting married so she could have kids and have "someone to fix things" -- I laughed then, but I'm not laughing now. Hongerboys can shag their hair, jocks can pump iron, and quiet, funny, literary types can master astrophysics and postmodern theory to their hearts' content, but the guy that can repair anything I throw at him has a pretty darn good wild card.
Good thing the one I have now already proved himself by gamely repairing my desk drawer in second year. Too bad I had to show him how to use a thermostat three months later.
In short, it's the tribulations of a "57-year-old, joyfully (perhaps even rampantly) heterosexual male" who goes to the local Home Depot to buy an ironing board cover (flowered, of course) and has a crisis of masculinity when confronted by his snowblower-buying peers. Don't worry, I'm not going to go on a feminist rant, even though I'm starting to eat feminist theory for breakfast with my oatmeal these days. The point I'll be trying to make for the next few paragraphs has more to do with what (I think) men are good for, not power relations or "sites of resistance".
To make a not-so-obvious leap, I also need to note that the house I live in essentially gutted itself over the last four months: two out of three of our faucets dripped (despite my post-it notes exhorting roommates to put their strength to work when turning off the taps), we stumble in and out of the house because the hallway light died in November, and most of our food prep was done in the cover of darkness. But thanks to Maintenance Man, who was even good enough to run back to the Commonsblock to get spare parts for us, we now live in a watertight, well-lit house. I told Dan yesterday that clean floors make me inexplicably happy -- now that I can see how clean the floor is, I'm actually even happier.
Maintenance Man changed life for us as we know it. I'm finding it hard to begrudge him for embodying masculinity with his huge tool belt, scruffy jeans and big boots while reading in our glowing living room, and a thought struck me: Marta was right all along. She's the former roommate who planned on getting married so she could have kids and have "someone to fix things" -- I laughed then, but I'm not laughing now. Hongerboys can shag their hair, jocks can pump iron, and quiet, funny, literary types can master astrophysics and postmodern theory to their hearts' content, but the guy that can repair anything I throw at him has a pretty darn good wild card.
Good thing the one I have now already proved himself by gamely repairing my desk drawer in second year. Too bad I had to show him how to use a thermostat three months later.
