The other day my son questioned my manhood. For once, I wasn’t running around the house in a slit skirt and poofy-sleeved blouse.
I was drinking a dark roast coffee. Albeit, not black, nor from the locally famous Conscious Cup. Had a bit of flavoring in it, which brought up his comment. It got me to thinking. Not regarding my manhood as my machismo is secure.
However, what about America’s?
This is no longer Hemingway’s America, or the romanticized version. Sure, Hemingway most likely not only drank his coffee black but waited until it congealed, spooning it up like it was hot fudge. Once the bitter concoction coated his tongue, he would proceed to wash it down with whiskey.
Now it’s the era of the metrosexual. You know one, a man who unabashedly takes on a mani or a pedi, tints his hair, wears hip huggers and flip-flops.
I question why as I sip my hot coffee flavored with creme brulee syrup.
