(1/2) Man the Mule: Passivity, the New Masculinity
How Masculinity Rests upon Leadership, and how Leadership Rests upon Servitude.
Grocery stores are playgrounds for ethnographers. They are public arenas where one can study the dynamics of couples without legal retribution or social disapproval. Grocery stores are also where the private curtain — meant to protect the underlying dysfunctions of a couple's interactions — ruffles a bit, and for a brief moment, something of the reality of their relationship reveals itself.
CHAPTER ONE:
LUKE
Inside one of them, I scanned the produce section. Pastel pomelos, berries, and vibrantly green vegetables contrasted the bleak 40-something-year-old dad bods moping behind their female counterparts.
A real-life Monet painting.
Now that I think about it, almost all the guys I see in grocery stores are either dissociatively pushing a shopping cart behind the person who is presumed to be their wife/girlfriend, or are alone and could not appear more totally confused.
One couple in particular caught my attention.
We’ll call the guy Luke. He had on a faded gray colored T-shirt (if that’s even a thing). So faded, and so gray in fact, that it appeared to be competing with the United Kingdom for the world’s most depressing scenery; 10 and a half months out of the year. As a psychotherapist, it was difficult to determine which of these fades of gray resulted in a more chronic condition of Seasonal Affective Disorder.
I sympathized with the fruits, now appearing nostalgic.
Luke was clean-shaven. His haircut looked like it was imposed by a 64-year-old mom working at Supercuts who just won't retire. Luke’s posture was tilted, as he leaned over his half-empty shopping cart, perhaps to conceal his droopy midarea. Safe to say, Luke was completely checked out, self, check-out.
Laugh.
Luke’s wife, who we’ll call Melissa, appeared to be inconspicuously scolding him while closely inspecting two Kiwis. Melissa had to have been type A. Her “how many times have I told you” glasses that magnified her frequently rapid eye movements, along with her bright red lipstick, and Laffy Taffy-yellow skirt shouted dominance.
There were a few more stops to different fruit and veggie stations, paired with inauthentic, sparse dialogue about cooking that night — perhaps in an attempt to appear like a normal couple both to onlookers and themselves.
“Ooo, maybe we can make that new lemon meringue cake tonight?”
“Ugh, I’m craving a fruit sorbet!”
All met with Luke’s absent “mhmm”'s and passively agreeing statements.
Just then someone bumped into Melissa, “Hey!” she hollered. The 20-something-year-old lanky perpetrator grunted and stood there in shock. Melissa cocked her head toward her supposed husband, who then turned to her in an almost inquisitive, permission-seeking manner before transforming from his somnambulant self to a more overdramatic and hysterical character:
“Hey! Watch where you’re going, you just hit my wife!” he yelled ferociously, turning red. The interaction was a bit more pleasant to observe since Luke’s affect now seemed to be literally colored — contrasting his formerly bleak aura. The perpetrator panicked, “S-Sorry dude I didn’t see her”.
Melissa interjected, “Luke, it’s fine.” before turning back to the frightened perpetrator “It’s fine, I’m okay.” she put out her hands as if bracing for a fall and simultaneously exclaiming enough.
Luke’s posture sunk, and so did his brows. His jaw and gaze fell to the floor as the perpetrator awkwardly bobbled past him.
“Why do you have to make such a big deal of things?” His wife hissed.
“He hit you!”
Luke desperately exclaimed, attempting to kindle his last bit of masculine rage somewhere. Anywhere.
“Yeah but he said he was sorry, didn’t he? You don’t have to act like you’re going to kill him.”
“I wasn't going to kill him. I’d look much different if I was going to kill somebody.”
“Stop saying that..”
“What? It's true. I’d be much more enraged, wanna see?
“No, let's just finish up here, the kids are probably back from school by now.”
Luke stood still, sighing deeply. A look of disapproval appeared on his now light pink face — a real-life Impression Sunset. Monet would be proud. Melissa brushed past him, sharply turning around when he did not follow. Luke obliged and trailed behind her, like a child who was just scolded by his mother.
If you’re thinking to yourself:
“This guy is totally whipped”
You’re probably right.
He definitely checks off all the boxes.
Everything from his lack of confidence, horrendous choice of fashion, absence of individuality, and meek compliance, to his inability to properly express emotions, posture, and dad bod vibes.
Luke fits the bill as an archetypical simp.
It is safe to say that most guys nowadays would not look up to Luke as an exemplary figure of manhood. In fact, most people, male and/or female, would try their best not to interact with the awkward, pushover-likes of Luke.
However overt this kind of muling appears, let us not forget about the covert kind. Because, another couple is seen shortly after, displaying the same kind of nauseating dynamics, but with different personalities.
* * *
CHAPTER TWO:
ETHAN
Ethan, late in his twenties, was of medium build. An awkwardly placed tattoo covered the bottom half of one of his knees. He looked like he had just gotten out of the gym, wearing a tech, standard black and white running shoes, and very short, short-shorts that exposed the coerced intimacy happening between his kneecap and quads — a lousy telenovela.
Ethan appeared to be fidgeting his leg muscles to have them bulge in a certain way as he awkwardly bit his bottom lip.
Speaking of fidgeting, his supposed partner, Raisa, stood in front of him looking panicked as she held multiple boxes of chicken breasts and oat milk. Raisa appeared to be East African. Her curly hair seemed to have been frantically wrapped in a top bun while the high-sleeved plain black tee-shirt exposed her malnourished arms and a 2-D tricep that wouldn't stop twitching. The throbbing of her temples was noticeable even to my astigmatism.
Raisa was clearly distressed.
Detached and unengaged, Ethan took advantage of whatever reflection he passed by as an opportunity to check himself out. He spoon-fed his own right kneecap and quadricep with an overly attentive, ego-obsessive presence, as his supposed partner remained neglected, perturbed, and emaciated.
A very sad telenovela indeed.
“Hey, is it okay if we just stick with oat milk this time? I don’t have enough for both this and whole milk, and you know I can’t drink whole milk.”
“Ah babe I don’t like oat milk, and plus, almost no protein, it's not good for you or me.”
Raisa blinked a few times and pressed her lips in an attempt to remain intact.
“I’m just playin', I’ll give it a try.”
“Thanks. I’m not sure if we’ll be able to get as much chicken breasts as we normally do this time either by the way.”
“What? Why?”
“I had to front money towards getting the toilet fixed and I’m super low.”
“Damn. Again?”
“Yeah, remember? I said multiple times that it needed to be done.”
“Alright I get it, don’t worry about it. Damn.”
The two resumed their isolating activities. But this time, a frown like the top half of Luke’s bloated potbelly weighed down Ethan’s face. His ego belched a silent aura of resentment and hostility.
Raisa seemed to notice, but her malnourished body and mind could not bear any more weighty demands. She put her hands on her throbbing temples and closed her eyes. Just when I was at my limit observing, a woman touched her shoulder.
“Hi! I love your hair!” the jovial voice exclaimed.
Raisa’s hands were still on her head as she opened her eyes.
“It’s so beautiful!”
Raisa made a face that received the compliment as a foreign language. Like it was the first time she ever heard that word — beautiful.
“I just wanted to say that, so sorry to disturb you though!”
If it were not for the dams of her eye bags, Raisa’s eyes would have leaked tears that would have needed more than just a plumber to fix. Ethan watched from a distance, and appeared to harbor even more animosity as he looked again to his flexed leg, with disdain on his face, as if to spitefully ask “what about this? Is anybody going to compliment me?”
And that was all I could manage to watch.
* * *
