Damien Galeone

My moment of clarity comes as I use the word lotion as a verb in two different conversations about my morning routine. It just came out, as though it were a natural thing to say. I lotion right after my shower. I even mention the brand. Oh, Dove Deep Care Body Milk is the best. I don’t add what I’m thinking, something out of a commercial: It’s like a vacation for my nipples.

There’s no going back. I admit that I am not the same man who once used toothpaste as underarm deodorant.

I am a middle-aged metrosexual.

OK, there’s a difference between a metrosexual and a middle-aged metrosexual. At least there is in my head, where I work nonstop to rationalize things.

There are many adjectives and phrases we might use to define a metrosexual. So in the interests of concision, here’s Google’s definition:

A heterosexual urban man who enjoys shopping, fashion, and similar interests traditionally associated with women or homosexual men.

So you can imagine that a metrosexual gent dresses to the nines and gets his various hair-zones waxed. He perfumes, moisturizes, quaffs, gets mani-pedis on a weekly basis and owns at least one Ascot. The metrosexual gets up at 6 a.m. to iron his shirts and to “put on his face” so as to look presentable for his corporate job. His closet is packed and when he opens it on a Saturday evening he says things like “I don’t have a thing to wear!” His bathroom cabinet look like a display shelf in Sears’ beauty department.

I suppose the metrosexual’s motivation is to look as good as possible every day. Though that’s a commendable and fair goal, I always thought the major benefit of being a man was that you could sleep later and spend 11 seconds combing your hair. Still, to each their very own.

But then I turned middle-aged.

The middle-aged metrosexual is different because we have different motivation. The middle-aged metrosexual just wants a slightly better quality of life. And this is because his body has recently decided to turn against him. So he has developed dry skin in weird places, like on his elbows or clavicles. As he hits 40, his face gets red from normal soaps and the shampoo he has always used makes his hair look like a beaver pelt strapped atop a lacrosse helmet. New rashes appear in places which have always cooperated, like underarms, toes, and behind the knees. His nails crack and he learns the word cuticle, in order to describe an extreme pain to a doctor.

And as a middle-aged metrosexual I have gone to battle with my own body. The things I buy have way more adjectives now. So instead of buying a basic bar of soap at a supermarket, the one labeled SOAP, I go to a drugstore and buy something called a cleansing milk soap. There are also charcoal body washes, antioxidant body cleansers with white tea, and a lavender and vanilla body smoother.

And yes, it’s divine.

My face has seen multi-action face washes, frothy face washes, and a variety of post-shave smoothers, white tea (again) skin guardians, rose balms, and peppermint scrubs. My face is like my grandmother’s spice garden. Though I can’t read (or pronounce) the conditioner or shampoo I use these days, I can tell you that they tingle and they help cut down on that beaver pelt look.

I wear a cologne and use an after shave developed by P. Diddy.

Before I can ask what’s happening to me? I am on the internet looking up the Czech word for cuticle (Pokožka). I’ll need to use it at the manicurist’s.

I guess the one thing the metrosexual and the middle-aged metrosexual have in common is that we don’t care what people think about us. Though, admittedly, it hurt the first time I spent more than 5 minutes combing my hair.

I have noticed a disturbing trend in my clothing habits. I tuck in my shirt now, iron on a daily basis, and yesterday looked at my shoes and said, “Oh, these need a buff!” without a hint of irony.

Tomorrow, I go Ascot shopping.