True Grit--What It Takes to Be a Real Man

I can’t make it in this man’s world. Life would be so much easier if I had a wife. Life would be so much easier if I were a man.

What modern woman hasn’t had these thoughts? Those of us struggling to lift ourselves up by our bra straps often feel the deck is stacked against us. Men don’t have to “prove” anything. Men can do an OK job; women have to be great. Men were taught from childhood to be aggressive; we were taught to be nice. Men are encouraged to go for it; we are encouraged to lose weight.

In an attempt to understand what the world looks like to someone who has all these advantages, I decided to be Man for a Day. What would happen, I wondered, if I walked a mile in his big leather shoes? A bit of makeup, a few new items of clothing, a different haircut and-- voila! --Little Alice became Big Al.

The first thing I noticed was the frightened look on my husband’s face when he woke up and saw me standing there dousing myself with Stud, the after-shave for men who want to make a stink.

I was about to say, “You get those buns out of bed and make me some breakfast” when I realized that I hadn’t made him breakfast since our fifth anniversary. Sure, for a few years I cooked, cleaned and was his all-around love slave. But after a while it was every person for itself.

Later, one of the kids took a look at me in my baggy, pleated pants, felt hat, suspenders and tie and said, “Mom, don’t try to be cool. Maybe Diane Keaton can get away with that, but it just isn’t you.”

As soon as they were all out of the house, instead of my usual routine of not cleaning up and not doing the laundry, I put on my mustache and went out.

As I walked down the street I heard a man who passed me say, “Who was that? Madonna?”

“You’ve been watching too much Joan Rivers,” his companion said. “That was Wayne Newton.”

I could pass.

At the office, I introduced myself to the guys as Big Al, the new guy.

“Hey, Big Al the New Guy,” one of the fellas said, “want to go deer hunting with us after work? We’re gonna kill for a couple of hours, then pick up some babes and party.”

“Sorry,” I said. “Can’t make it.”

“Whatsa matter, Al--you a sissy-boy?”

As if that weren’t enough, the boss called me in at 9:15. “Scotch, Al?” he said, offering me the bottle from the brown paper bag on his desk.

I declined. “Whatsa matter, Al--can’t handle it?”

At lunchtime, I went to my favorite bar and grill. Instead of getting the Dieter’s Delite, I told the waitress: “Give me the biggest, bloodiest, rawest hunk of meat you’ve got, a plate of fries, double cole slaw and some chocolate whipped-cream pie.”

“No wonder you’re so thin,” she said. “You eat like a bird.”

After lunch I walked over to the bookstore, hoping to find something hard-boiled to carry around but not actually read.

“Where’s the men’s section?” I asked the clerk.

“We have no men’s section,” she answered.

“But that’s not fair,” I said indignantly. “You have a women’s section.”

“Look, pal,” she said to me, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “We consider the rest of the store the men’s section.”

Back at work, I noticed Marge, the gofer, staring at me. I stared back at her. I was certain she’d guessed my identity.

“Marge, guess what’s under here,” I said, smiling at her.

She stood up on her desk and started screaming, “Eek, a pervert!”

My sexual-harassment hearing is scheduled for next week.

When the boss heard about the charges, he offered me a raise. And the guys are taking me out to dinner. Phyllis, a gal in the secretarial pool, winked at me and said she would testify in my behalf. Then she asked if I would take her to the annual spring dance.

I think I’ll wear a tux.