Thirty-something speaks
Real men don't fold laundry
Mike Maddock

A friend of mine called the other day and asked me what I was doing. Not thinking much of it I said, "Folding laundry."

He immediately barked at me, "Man, you never tell another man you're folding laundry."

"But that's what I'm doing," I responded ignorantly.

He continued, "I know, but you really should make something up. Tell me you're cleaning the grill or playing with a skill saw or just lying on the couch eating Cheetos and watching lumberjack competitions, but don't tell me you're folding clothes."

I was so confused. My manlihood was suddenly in serious jeopardy, and I thought I was just helping around the house. Had I just outed myself, or was I just doing what I usually did on rainy Saturday mornings? I fold clothes and catch a bad movie on cable. It wasn't

like I was watching Steel

Magnolias and tearing up as I stacked my daughters' undergarments. I was watching Red Dawn. That's a manly movie. High school kids use guerilla warfare to blast Cuban and Russian invaders in America's heartland. What'Rs emda Dnaliwern than that? or not, I guess I was still folding laundry.

My friend later explained to me the fact I was folding laundry wasn't the actual problem. He said we all have our little duties to perform. It was just how freely I admitted it that was the issue.

Apparently, my testosterone induced pride is now officially gone. I don't think twice about confessing to the less than manly activities in my life. I'm not embarrassed anymore by the fact I was up to my eyeballs folding little cotton things with tiny bows on them. And that's not all…if I were caught in the feminine hygiene aisle at the grocery store, I doubt I would fake temporary vertigo and claim I was actually looking for charcoal.

If I had my face in a quiche, I wouldn't say I had mistaken it for pecan pie. If I came to the door in a pink hat and a feather boa, there's not much I could say other than I was a very special guest at my daughters' tea party. I could lie, but who would believe me?

My friend just thinks it is important to maintain the façade of pure unadulterated manliness, even if you're borrowing a frilly apron to finish a load of dirty dishes. After all, real men may soak their hands in Palmolive, but they don't admit it. Calluses are supposed to come from hacksaws, not hand towels. Back pain comes from digging holes in the yard, not from carrying laundry baskets up the stairs. Wrinkled hands come from washing the truck, not from soaking in flavored bath salts…at least that's what he'd like our fellow men to believe.

My friend may have a point. It is better to look like Bob Villa, than to feel like Martha Stewart.