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Making It Up As I Go Along by Samantha Gianulis So I married a metro Metrosexual: A man who…has refined tastes in clothing, excessively uses designer hygiene products, etc. (See urbandictionary.com for the exhaustive definitions and lists.) Fish have to swim, birds have to fly. My husband has to read Men’s Health and exfoliate regularly. Pete and I moved in together two months before our wedding. We were two kids in their 20s cohabiting a 2BR/1BA apartment with handed-down sofas, a mattress we got on sale, and a brand new hunter-green kitchen table. The thought of starting my life with him – I was clueless what idiosyncrasies would reveal themselves as we shared a small bathroom, when closet space was scarce, or when the trash needed to be taken out in the pouring rain. Idiosyncratic, that’s what I called him back then. “You’ll adjust to each other,” people told us during our engagement. Different versions of “The toilet seat will always be up, so don’t be surprised when you fall into the toilet at 2 a.m.,” were told to me at my bridal shower. Toilet seats? Is that the sage advice I’m starting a lifelong journey with? How about you solve this for me, dear elders: my husband-to-be steals my expensive salon products (especially things with mint) and has a shoe habit that levees bank accounts. Not really, but close. My husband’s meticulous tendencies first peaked on our honeymoon. We were getting ready for dinner in our hotel room, and as I twirled my messy tresses into a clip, Pete asked me, “Would you be offended if I didn’t use hair gel tonight?” Oh yes, so offended I wouldn’t be seen with you. Unkempt hair is grounds for annulment, honey. “Huh?” I responded. “Would you be offended if I don’t use hair gel? I’m out of my favorite product, you only brought mousse which I don’t use, and the gel they sell in the gift shop of the hotel smells bad.” He was nearing crisis over hair gel while my mind chattered “light beer or margarita?” “I don’t mind if you don’t use hair gel,” I replied as I amusedly wondered who was it that told me not to be surprised by my new husband? I’ve got something to share with them. Dear So and So, That was 1996. Years later I would hear the term “metro-sexual,” and flash back to our honeymoon hair gel conversation. Finally, a category existed in which to place men like my husband. I was pleased to have one moniker for him, rather than the several different nicknames I used, like… Product Junkie I contribute part of our marital success to the fact that I decided early on not only to accept my husband for his idiosyncrasies, but use them to start conversations at dinner parties. Because not only is he fun to tease, but what an irresistible dichotomy he is; all the masculine traits I ever dreamed of in my Prince Charming, with some inherent consciousness of, um, style. Last year he watched the NFL draft wearing my blue-clay face mask and responded to the look of surprise on my face with, “What, I can’t have unclogged pores, too?” You can have whatever you want. You move me. There are times he’s not so endearing. Should I need makeup and plan for a quick stop in Sephora, the shopping trip somehow transitions into a cologne excursion for my husband. The women who work at Sephora, or any department store cosmetic counter, flock to and love my husband. Here is how it goes: I keep the kids from applying lipstick to their eyelids so my husband can ask questions like “Do you have any colognes with notes of patchouli? I really like patchouli!” and an hour later, my husband holds four different colognes in front of me, inquiring “Which of these do you like the most? What? Why are you looking at me like that?” What’s the point in fighting over it? It’s his “nature.” He keeps me there, alright. “The angels done plan it,” no doubt, how else can I explain the ironic role reversal in our somehow-this-works-beautifully marriage? So, I married a metro. A metro who at first was, and still is, a hero in the Bonnie Tyler sense. That’s all that matters. Not forgetting this, independent though I am, I do not know what I would do without him. I wouldn’t have any hair gel (I conveniently use his discards). I wouldn’t know the difference between saddle brown and chestnut brown (how I survived 37 years without that knowledge, I’ll never know). I wouldn’t have anyone to iron my clothes, a task my husband enjoys (“It relaxes me,” he says), especially if he has the spray-on starch in the citrus scent. ONLY the citrus scent. Without the term “metro-sexual” there would still be the man, but without the man, my life would be devoid of surprise, my life without humor. Where’s the fun in that?
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