I’ve been reading a lot of stuff lately about what it means to be a man. Maybe it has something to do with getting closer and closer to 30. Maybe it’s the Paul Newman movies I’ve been watching, the jazz I’ve been listening to and reading about, or the pictures of old sports cars I’ve lusting after. Like this:
Either way, it’s been on my mind a lot. I’ve never considered myself very manly. I am a man, yes. But there are so many other signifiers I don’t meet. Of course, maybe I should quickly point out that these are signifiers that are most likely rural and Mid-Ohio Valley centric. For instance, I’ve never been hunting and don’t plan to — ever. I don’t like football. It’s OK, but in small doses mostly. If I watch it, I’m with friends or family.
Also, there’s this: I don’t really, like, ever, grunt. If you watched a certain sitcom in the ’90s during your formative years you were inclined to believe all men did this.
I have, however, recaptured something my dad did when I was younger that in recent years never fails to rev my manliness engine. And that is cooking. No, wait. I mean cooking pancakes and/or waffles.
In my eyes, there’s nothing manlier than cooking your son gridded batter on a glorified hot plate:
… in a manly apron while drinking a hot beverage in a cup you got for your first Father’s Day:
… and also burning your fingers on said glorified hot plate. All in the name of love.