Guys, here’s what sensitive really means

Growing up in Sonoma County, I learned to recognize the SNAG early. And you know him already, though perhaps not by name. Oft confused with the hippie, SNAGs proliferate in California’s (metaphorically) dung-soaked terroir.

SNAG: Sensitive New Age Guy. His defining characteristics are:

* Not afraid to cry

* Or to whine

* Does yoga

* Smokes weed (or just acts like it)

* Loves love

* Posts on Craigslist, seeking “a tender young (18-23) lotus-blossom to mentor in the art of sensual tantric massage”

And the most obvious . . .

* Will come right out and announce -- usually during your first conversation -- “Hey, I’m a sensitive guy.”

It’s not that I want a scruffed-out Neanderthal throwback who passes gas at the dinner table and smacks me around just for chuckles. Not at all. I want an intelligent, evolved male Homo sapiens who will be nice to me and ask how my day went. I just don’t think a SNAG fits the bill. See . . .

The statement “I am sensitive” has only one subject -- and it’s not you. If you are nowhere in someone’s defining statement, then it follows that you are nowhere in his overall picture.

Yeah, the SNAG is sensitive. About himself. But about your sensitivities, emotional needs and self-centered tendencies? Not at all.

Though it pains me to admit this, I dated a SNAG recently. His name was John and, true to form, he told me on our first date that he was sensitive. A red flag went up, but since John didn’t display the other characteristics (he preferred weightlifting to yoga and garden-variety intimate activities to anything exotic), I ignored it.

Three weeks into our relationship, I went on a business trip to the Caribbean. “Don’t forget to buy me a present,” he instructed. I thought this was a bit needy, but -- perhaps out of guilt -- I bought him a small painting. It wasn’t cheap, and I put a lot of thought into it.

When I gave it to him, he thanked me halfheartedly, clearly unimpressed.

The red flag rose to a great height. It unfurled and began to flap in the ever-strengthening current of my discontent.

“You know,” I said a couple of days later, “women love flowers. I, myself, love flowers. They’re beautiful, they smell good and receiving them makes me happy.”

The third time I dropped this subtle-as-a-bomb hint, John went outside and plucked a tiny, pathetic sprig bearing two droopy purple blossoms. He presented it with a flourish as I was leaving.

“Why, thank you,” I gritted. I set the poor little wilting sprig on the passenger seat, where he spotted it two days later. All hell broke loose.

“I can’t believe how mean you are,” he told me. “You didn’t even care that I picked you that flower. You should have saved it.”

(“Saved it from what? You had already killed it,” I thought.)

“You,” he declared, “are extremely insensitive.”

In moments like this, I always think of my sister’s fiance, Greg. He actually invented the term SNAG. In addition, he cooks lavish meals for my entire family on the holidays; surprises my sister with flowers, cards and trinkets, just because; found an emerald- green, faux-fur-trimmed sweater that my sister loved, as he’d known she would; and fully supports her goals and needs, though he may not always understand them.

I think Greg would rather eat a box of staples than tar himself with the unmanly “sensitive” brush. But while the Johns in this world are too wrapped up in their own SNAGiness to consider anyone else, Greg has her in his thoughts and deeds, always. And that is the hallmark of a man who truly gives a damn.