Is Everyone Hanging Out Without Me_ (And Other Concerns) - Mindy Kaling [61]
At this point you might want to smack me and say: “Are you seriously another grown woman talking about how she wants a man who isn’t afraid of commitment? Is this a book, or a blog called Ice Cream Castles in the Air: One Single Gal Hopes for Prince Charming? We’ve all heard this before!” But let me explain! I’m not talking about commitment to romantic relationships. I’m talking about commitment to things: houses, jobs, neighborhoods. Having a job that requires a contract. Paying a mortgage. I think when men hear that women want a commitment, they think it means commitment to a romantic relationship, but that’s not it. It’s a commitment to not floating around anymore. I want a guy who is entrenched in his own life. Entrenched is awesome.
So I’m into men now, even though they can be frightening. I want a schedule-keeping, waking-up-early, wallet-carrying, non-Velcro-shoe-wearing man. I don’t care if he has more traditionally “men problems” like having to take prescription drugs for cholesterol or hair loss. I can handle it. I’m a grown-up too.
*Look, I’m not an idiot, I realize plenty of boys own houses. That’s, like, the whole point of the Playboy mansion.
In Defense of Chest Hair
AS A THIRTEEN-YEAR-OLD, my big celebrity crush was Pierce Brosnan. Yeah, I know. Pierce Brosnan is such an uncreative crush that it sounds like the panicked choice of a closeted lesbian teenager. But, Pierce was my guy. I was thirteen and watching Mrs. Doubtfire in the theater with all my friends. There is a scene in which Pierce Brosnan gets out of a pool, Cheryl Tiegs–style. He is manly and glistening, and I remember this one point very clearly: he has a thick swatch of chest hair. It was a minor sexual awakening. During Mrs. Doubtfire. Not a movie often cited for its idealized depiction of traditional masculinity.
I have always liked a man with chest hair. I have only fond memories of my dad’s as a kid, peeking out of a really cool button-up shirt he wore with a map of the world on it. I think chest hair looks distinguished. It’s, like, cool—my dad’s a man.
So I really don’t understand why men shave or wax their chests. I find it so unnecessary. I mean, I sort of get it if you’re a professional swimmer because each hair follicle adds a second to your time or something, but it’s every single male actor in Hollywood. When I turn on an hour-long drama and all I see are these forty-year-old men with hairless chests, I feel slightly nauseated. Why? For the same reason one might feel nauseated by a woman with too many cosmetic injectables in her face: it just shows so much icky effort to conform to some arbitrary beauty standard. And the standard in this instance is particularly insane. You want to strip your body of something that is so coolly and distinctly male? Yuck! When I see a perfectly hairless, tanned guy on-screen, I am forced to recall the Chihuahua. Or I think of the process by which the man got rid of his chest hair. How much did it cost to get waxed? Will it grow out into prickly stubble? And frankly, guys, you should be suspect of these gals who are like va-va-va-voom over your smooth, hair-free chest. She must want you to look like either a Chippendale (who are all gay anyway, as everyone knows) or a little boy.
Look, I know the male equivalent of the person with my opinion is that creepy guy who declares he loves women to be “au natural” with a gross glint in his eye. But I’d rather be a female version of that guy than not say this at all. Besides, I’ve already revealed myself to be a bit of a creep in several sections of this book. Please leave your chest hair alone!
Married People Need to Step It Up
PRETTY MUCH the only thing I remember from my Shakespeare course in college is that one can identify a comedy, as opposed to a tragedy, because it ends in a wedding. (I also remember