Lawn Mower Face

Ten day's stubble, that's what women want to see on a guy's face, according to a recent study. Full beards mean good daddy material; heavy stubble makes us look like men. Personally, I wonder whether the female study participants (males in the study responded similarly) really want to snuggle up with Mr. Scratchy or they simply like "the look." 

Marketing likes it, that's for sure. Check out the male models in the latest L.L. Bean or Land's End catalog; almost every one has several days accumulation of 5:00 shadow. True, they're also young (20s, early 30s) and muscular, with finely chiseled facial features, characteristics no doubt chosen because of their presumed appeal to women. I'd like to know where all the mature male models have gone. You suppose, after a certain age, we don't have to try to look manly, we just do?

If maturity is a sign of masculinity, it's a darned good thing because whenever I've enjoyed more than a day of unshaven bliss, forget about women gazing at me with undisguised "I want to have your children" yearning on their faces. They only glance long enough to make a cross with both index fingers and point it in my direction. Makes me wonder if I've been watching too much True Blood (HBO) lately. Anyway, Daniel Craig's 007 looked pretty scuzzy in Skyfall (2013) after a few weeks hiding out in paradise. Even M noticed. So, what gives?

Maybe it's a shift in women's ideas about masculinity. Instead of a sensitive soul who wears his feelings on his sleeve, they want someone who appears and probably acts, a little tougher. Not in the sense he's inconsiderate or abusive -- qualities more accurately reflective of narcissism than genuine masculinity -- rather he has a kind of durability that says he can take life on the chin.

The authors of the study seem to think women consider a shaven face as too youthful, while a full beard makes men seem older, hence better candidates for parenting. Stubble characterizes the guy in the middle, situated on the cusp of masculinity. He has enough testosterone to develop a beard but not so much that he might be considered overly aggressive. "On the cusp," however, usually means "at the point of beginning." From that perspective, a man on the cusp of masculinity is still a boy, something worth remembering when you go out on a date. Appearances can be deceiving.

I have a sneaking suspicion character or manliness are more accurate terms for the qualities that came to mind when the participants viewed stubbly male faces. With a nod of the head to evolutionary psychology, I don't think women are so shallow as to be mainly interested in how closely we approximate our prehistoric ancestors. The problem is, unlike the onset of facial hair, character and manliness don't accompany puberty. They have to be earned and the proof a man possesses them is demonstrated by the way he treats others and the standards he maintains for himself, implying an investment in time and experience. We may be born male but we have to grow into manhood. Facial stubble may signal "sexy" but if Lawn Mower Face is all a fellow's got, he doesn't have nearly enough.  


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(Creative Commons image by Twaize via Flickr)

The Psychology of Tailgating: Part Two

 
Some time back I wrote a post about tailgating that included the lyrics to a song I'd written while still in Colorado. It came about one afternoon while trying to deal humorously with a BMW whose driver apparently decided my late father's beautiful '88 Cadillac was so fascinating he had to get as close as he could. My car was naturally flattered, but at 65 miles an hour, the attention wasn't exactly welcome.

Later on, I wondered about him, what motivated his behavior, was he thinking at all or was his mind far away on a beach? Why are some drivers unwilling to keep a reasonable distance? If they want to go faster, why not take the option to pass, especially if the dashed white line clearly says, "Go for it"? I think the same questions may be on the minds of those who've graciously read the first post and I'd like to offer a follow-up that errs less on the side of levity.

There are a lot of factors involved, I'm sure. A driver's attention is drawn away by a cell call as their foot depresses the accelerator proportionate to the intensity of the conversation. This is why you don't want to talk to your ex while the car is moving; tempers flare. Some drivers have psychiatric disorders that make it difficult to manage emotions, particularly under stress and driving can be stressful. Anyone who's ever been late for work knows there are times it's just hard to keep your emotions in check. Before you know it, you've forgotten other people have concerns besides yours and you're doing to them what you hate to have done to you. We're all human, every one of us.

But there's another issue I've observed, or think I've observed, since it reflects an attitude or personality trait and therefore can only be inferred. Some drivers behave as though their vehicle is a symbol of superiority and owning the road is their right and privilege. The presence of another car ahead of them sets off an intriguing cognitive process. If the car appears of comparable value to theirs, they are less likely to tailgate. Instead, they'll keep a respectful distance before accelerating around it. They'll glance at the other driver for recognition, nod and drive on. Strangers and clearly social equals passing like ships in the night. A car of lesser value or vintage, however, represents an imposition their self-importance won't tolerate. 

Now, why is that? Well, the presence of a lesser vehicle in front of them can be understood as triggering feelings related to shame. Not in the way we normally think of it, i.e. being embarrassed or ashamed because of something we've said or done. This is shame in the sense of feeling "less than," of being inferior. This experience may seem minor to you and me, but it's anything but minor to those who've oriented their entire lives around the idea they're deserving of preferential treatment. If you've been whispering to yourself the word, "narcissism," by the way, you get an A+.

Obviously, I don't think everyone who tailgates is narcissistic, but the behavior of some drivers leads me to think it's not uncommon. Consider how narcissistic individuals tend to be exquisitely sensitive to anything suggesting they aren't naturally superior to everyone else. We imagine them possessing the biggest house, newest car, and the most attractive of spouses. The reality is more diverse, though narcissism, generally, is characterized by almost a passion for control and a strong sense of entitlement. To the narcissist, our car constitutes a threat to their self-esteem; it's taking up space that rightly belongs to them. Finally racing past is their way of reminding us of the fact.

It takes very little to set off narcissistic rage, sometimes almost nothing at all. The thing to remember is, on the road or in daily life, it really is all about them, in the sense you aren't to blame for their misbehavior. You aren't inferior and they aren't superior. Accelerating dangerously or giving them the middle finger salute, only puts you at risk because your emotions have taken over your better judgment. They probably wouldn't get the point anyway. As easy as it is to become angry, it's far healthier to switch lanes or pull off the road briefly -- literally and metaphorically -- when it's safe to do so. No one's narcissism is worth an accident, or worse, becoming a statistic.   

(Creative Commons image by Eleventh Earl of Mar via Flickr)

OB/GYN: A Dream of Women

As of last Friday, my obstetrics and gynecology rotation has come to an end, and as you've probably noticed, I've been uncharacteristically reticent to talk about it. Don't worry, nothing bad happened. As a matter of fact, in retrospect, this has been one of my favorite rotations. Scrubbing in on surgical procedures several times a week was an absolute kick and being able to act as first assist because I'd just completed surgery was like the icing on German Chocolate Cake. And, naturally, there were the babies. One, a few weeks premature, had the most beautiful, delicate, perfectly formed little fingers. Another fell asleep in the crook of my arm with her lips sealed against my left shirt pocket. No, darlin', I'm not mommy, but thanks anyway.

The truth is, I really had a wonderful six weeks and when it came time to leave, I felt almost as wistful as on the last day of my psychiatry rotation and that is saying something. What was holding me back from writing, though, took a few days to reveal itself, and unexpectedly, it did so in a dream. I was a student on the obstetrics unit in an unnamed hospital one evening, sitting on a counter ledge in the nursing station, watching a group of women. A few feet away on my left was a new mother breastfeeding her infant. Directly across from her, on my right, seated on a soft, pillowed couch, were five other women -- nurses -- mostly in their 40s and 50s. They were smiling and singing or chanting, I can't recall which, and clapping their hands in unison, swaying from side to side. I couldn't hear the words clearly, but they were obviously enjoying themselves immensely.

Everything was so totally natural no one, not even the woman breastfeeding, seemed even remotely self-conscious or uncomfortable because a man was present. I got up from my seat and approached one of the older women whom I knew well, just as the group stopped singing and began laughing, with the intent of whispering to her, "This is the first time I've seen breastfeeding have cheerleaders," because that's how it appeared. In the dream, of course, I thought this terribly funny and was sure she'd think it uproarious. It's easy to be Robin Williams in Dreamland.

What strikes me about the scene were the colors. Everything, including my clothes and those worn by the women, was done in shades of white. Not paper white, but more like the pastels used to depict heaven on film, with boundaries fading at the extremes and an absence of sharp lines. It reminded me of heaven as Maxfield Parrish might have painted it, ethereal yet earthly, mythic yet real.

It seemed to me, I was seeing womanhood in a way few have the opportunity. The women themselves knew this to be true and graciously permitted me a glimpse of the way they are privately, when they're amongst themselves. As a man, I wasn't exactly an outsider, but neither was I an initiate. I don't know what I was, a guest, perhaps? All I know with any certainty is, I was witnessing a young woman in the company of older women, all of whom having done as was she, feeding their children from their own breasts, and the feeling I had was of joy and serenity.

Rotations are about a lot of things, I suppose, learning and practicing new skills, adding to a growing body of knowledge, feeling more confident in oneself, but this one was far more. Frankly, I'm still having trouble putting it into words. I'll figure it out eventually; right now, I'm still in awe.

(Creative Commons image "White" by LaWendula via Flickr)

Door Number Three

Five days ago, six if you count Monday and orientation, I walked onto the obstetrics unit, knowing little more than Prissy (Gone With the Wind, 1939), who freely admitted she knew "nothin' about birthin' babies." I guess that means I knew next to nothing, which is okay; if I knew at the beginning of this rotation what I hope to know at the end, there wouldn't be much reason for what comes along in between, would there?

As it stands, I've already learned a few things, among them that I'm not inclined to drop a slippery newborn despite the fact, as a kid playing Little League, "Butterfingers" could easily have been my nickname. There's something about holding a baby who's just taken its first breath, that makes you hold on for dear life. Maybe it's parenting instincts kicking in, but the thought of losing your grip doesn't cross your mind. Holding them close with a quick, welcome-to-the-world snuggle in the crook of your arm, while passing them to the NICU (neonatal intensive care unit) team, you bet, but letting them slide through your fingers? Uh-uh.

And then, there's the matter of learning about the mess. Childbirth really is messy business. Television prefers spit and polished, shiny clean new babies who don't make anyone squeamish. Not so Mother Nature. There may be some blood, especially if junior's exit from the womb produces a tear in mom's vagina. There's amniotic fluid when her water breaks, though that usually occurs earlier, unless she's having a C-section, in which case the flow of amniotic fluid is more like a flood. To top it off, there's meconium -- baby poop -- mixed in for good measure. Martha Stewart would cringe.

Honestly, though, I don't mind the mess. Life is messy. Personally, I think trying to eliminate the messiness nudges more people toward neurosis than the other way around. It certainly is a driving force in narcissism, where the appearance of perfection is all-important. Babies have an entirely different perspective. Forget all that other stuff, okay? Mom was toasty warm, will someone please wrap me in a blanket? Ah, there we go, that's better. Mm. Thank you very much.

What I'm particularly enjoying about this rotation thus far is the tacit understanding that some things can only be learned here. Internal medicine teaches you how to write a good clinical note, surgery how to behave in the OR, pediatrics how to deal with kids and parents, psychiatry how to manage things going wrong, and then rural and family med puts it all together. None of them, however, specifically target birthing, prenatal care, or women's health (gynecology). So, in a sense, it's expected that a student is literally starting over at the bottom. You can use skills gained elsewhere to a certain extent and yet, so much is totally new. Every day is pregnant (pardon the pun) with possibilities and you never know what's waiting behind door number three.


(GNU Free Documentation image of a brand new newborn via Wikipedia)

Missing Megan Fox

I really like Megan Fox, but not necessarily for the reasons you might think, me being a guy and all. Sure, she's drop-dead gorgeous -- I'd have to be blind as a bat not to have noticed and trust me, I've noticed. But what I like about her so much is her role in the first two Transformer films. No, I'm not talking about the cutoff jean shorts she wears in both, though I noticed them as well. I mean her character.

Megan (if she's reading this, I hope she doesn't mind the familiarity) plays Mikaela Banes, a pretty young woman with a past. Her father has a prison record for grand theft auto and she, a juvenile record for having been his presumed accomplice. She has another liability, however, and that's her beauty and sex appeal. Like far too many women, she has a history of being regarded as a trophy.

In the first film, her boyfriend is a muscular, good-looking, football player who treats her like a possession once too often. She knows there's something wrong with the guys she's chosen to date, she doesn't like the pattern, and she has sufficient inner strength to do something about it. As she's walking home, along comes the film's hero, Sam Witwicky. Sam is everything the other guys could never be: overtly insecure, honest, and down deep, utterly courageous.

In the first installment of the trilogy, Mikaela is not only a match for Sam, in some ways she is even more heroic. For instance, when they're attacked by a mini-decepticon, she grabs a power saw and goes to work, rescuing him. During the final battle against Megatron, she is determined to save Bumble Bee by hooking him up to a tow truck and then drives it backwards down a wreckage-strewn street while he shoots at the bad guys. I love that scene.

In Revenge of the Fallen, her character is a little more traditional and her biggest challenge seems to involve convincing Sam to tell her that he loves her. Sam, how crazy do you have to be to have someone like her around and dither about saying, "I love you?" Get a clue, buddy. Anyway, that bothered me, the fact that she wasn't permitted to be the totally gutsy chick she was in Transformers. Her character wasn't just beautiful, she was admirable.

Now we come to Dark of the Moon and there's no Megan Fox. Instead, we've got a blond babe whom Sam has decided is the love of his life. She flirts with other guys and then minimizes her behavior, she's essentially focused on the accumulation of expensive toys, and perhaps, worst of all, she has absolutely no idea what makes Sam tick. You tell me what's wrong with this picture.

If we wanted to get psychological, we'd have to ask why Sam hooked up with her in the first place. According to the story line, he and Mikaela had a fight, broke up, and rather than do what any man with a lick of sense would do, i.e. turn himself inside out to get Mikaela back, he lets her go. Sam clearly has far too much pride for his own good. It's what kept him from declaring his feelings in Revenge of the Fallen and it comes back to haunt him in Dark of the Moon. We could be Freudian and say the new girl is more like his mother, but we really don't have enough character development to go that route. We do know, however, that Mikaela and his mother are two very different kinds of women and that could explain a lot.

For whatever reasons the producers decided Megan's character wasn't meant to be a part of the last film, I miss her. I liked Mikaela's resourcefulness and willingness to take a risk. Her response to Sam's question, "Fifty years from now, when you're looking back on your life, don't you want to be able to say you had the guts to get into that car?" is one with which I, as an older medical student, can well identify. I also liked the fact that she wasn't squeaky clean. She had a past she was ashamed of but she refused to let that prevent her from something better. Her wounds made her human and more interesting. Best of all, I think, she didn't allow herself to be paralyzed by fear. She could be counted on in the clinches and was capable enough to be a participant in the action rather than a hand-wringing damsel-in-distress. Definitely the right kind of gal and why I'm missing Megan Fox.


(Image of Transformers: Revenge of the Fallen via RottenTomatoes.com)

Talk About Being Hard-Nosed

We were chatting about various issues, don't ask don't tell, the nature of relationships, and of course, politics, and how he imagined I might feel about them.

"I kind of expected, you being a man of the cloth and all, you'd think differently," he said.

"I'm sorry, but what does being a minister have to do with it?"

"Well, you know, the Bible says certain things just aren't right and I figured you being a minister, you knew the Bible better than most, and therefore you'd be pretty hard-nosed about those things."

He'd made a reasonable assumption, I just didn't happen to share it. To explain why, I told him the following story.

Once upon a time, there was a woman who had been caught, I assume by her husband, with another man. At this particular time in history, it was common practice to drag the woman out into the street, humiliate and then stone her to death. No one asked whether she had been abused or neglected and no one offered to represent her in court. As a matter of fact, there was no court except public opinion and in that one, she was guilty as charged.

Things were looking bad for the woman when Jesus happened by. The townspeople told him what was taking place and asked his opinion. He thought about it a minute or two and said, "Anybody who's never done anything they're ashamed of can throw the first stone." One by one, the people walked away. Then he said to the woman, "Looks like nobody's left to accuse you and neither do I. From now on, though, try not to get yourself into another situation like this."

"Yeah, but I'm talking about stuff that's unnatural," he said, "men and men, women and women. You got to be either for or against that."

"I don't have to be one way or the other on anything," I said, "because the One I work for wasn't. He dispensed with passing judgment except on those who thought they had a right to judge others. That didn't sit well with him. If he was here right now, you know what I think he'd tell us? Stop worrying about what other people do, whether it's right or wrong, natural or unnatural, and start being compassionate because some day you may need it as much as anyone else. And if you don't show it, you have no right to expect it."

Talk about being hard-nosed.


(Creative Commons image entitled "Hard-nosed" by Peter Giger via Flickr)

Pink Hats 22: A Different Drummer

After-hours coffee and Danish from the Nook and Cranny had the earmarks of becoming a ritual between friends. Despite his pediatrics rotation having been complete around mid-September, Chuck continued drop by Bob's office throughout the first of his two required six-week internal medicine rotations and now an elective two weeks in radiology. On the other side of four more in OB/GYN lay psychiatry, at last. What he didn't expect was the residual effect of his initial month with Bob, Jessie, and the twins on his future.

"I keep thinking about that child-adolescent fellowship and it's all your fault," he said, hanging his head and faking misery.

"I've been blamed for a lot of things," Bob replied, ruefully, "including a baby when I was seventeen that I had absolutely nothing to do with -- and couldn't have even if I'd wanted to because I was on a Scouting trip during conception -- but this is a new one. Tell me."

They were sitting in Bob's office with their feet propped up on opposite sides of a massive roll top desk he'd inherited ten years ago from his pediatrics instructor who, at 80, decided it was a good time to retire and sail around the world. He made it, by the way, and now, he and his wife were trekking in Nepal, in celebration of his 90th birthday.

"Well, I thought I had everything planned out. Adult psychiatry was my bailiwick. Sure, I loved kids, just like you, but I enjoyed psychotherapy so much it was hard to see myself in another role. Then you came along -- and Jessie -- and the twins -- and the next thing you know, I couldn't get enough of pediatrics. Especially the kids with ADHD and parents who're going nuts trying to cope, the occasional bipolar disorder we've seen, and the substance-abusing teens. And frankly, I miss them. I feel like saying, along with the prophet Isaiah, 'Woe is me, for I am undone.'"

Bob pursed his lips and nodded, as though he had anticipated the news. "I had a feeling we were going to be a bad influence. It's even worse when the kids like you, and clearly, they do -- that's a trap waiting to be set. Top it off, when you can get teenagers talking -- well, all I can say is, you are in way wicked trouble, my friend." He broke into an appreciative smile.

"Looks like it. I don't know all the details yet, but I've got plenty of time -- see? You can't get rid of me, can you? Now, about the dream you mentioned a couple of days ago in passing, the one you had on the way home from Concord --"

"-- yeah, what did you think of that?" Bob asked, interrupting.

"It was a good one, especially coming on the heals of meeting Jessie's father."

"You're saying a dream's timing is as important as its content?"

"From the perspective of interpretation, yes. Dreams are one thing, the way we view them afterward, is another. My impression is, this one is suggesting you have your own rhythm. Kind of like Thoreau's comment, 'If a man does not keep pace with his companions, perhaps it's because he hears a different drummer.' In your dream, the bass drum was a stethoscope -- you're maintaining the 'beat' of the music all right, but in your way. Timing enters the picture because, from what you've told me about Jessie's dad, it sounds like he's inclined to do similarly. It's probably another one of the benefits of you being older, allowing the two of you to establish a more mature connection."

"I agree, but that didn't make it any easier. Sure, we were more likely to develop a peer-type relationship than would have been possible if I was nearer Jessie's age, but he's still her father and truthfully? I felt like I was 22 once again, sweaty palms included. I guess none of us are as 'together' as we'd like to believe."

"That holds true for me, I'll tell you. One thing you can definitely count on is your relationship with her father making life a great deal easier for Jessie."

Bob was in mid-bite on his Danish. He stopped, put it down, and said, "I would assume that's a 'given.'"

"It is, but there's more. It tells her she doesn't have to love one of you at the expense of the other. It gives her a deep, abiding sense of security about two of the most important relationships a woman can have with men. And a woman like Jessie, who clearly wants someone with more maturity than a guy closer to her own age might possess, has the unspoken expectation that whoever she brings home, should be someone her father can respect as well as one who respects him. You already know this, but she's really an extraordinary woman -- I hope I get half as lucky." With a gleam in his eye he added, "Wait a minute. Didn't you tell me she has a sister? Anyhow, looks to me like you hit this one out of the ballpark. When are you going to pop the question?"

Bob laughed, "One at a time. First, yes I did and she's available, but I think it would look better if Jessie played matchmaker. A professor setting up a date might appear as unfair advantage. As to the second, I haven't quite decided, but I'm thinking around Christmas. It's our favorite time of year and even a romantic moron like me can pick the right place. I need to find a ring and I haven't figured out how to get her size without coming out and asking. I could do that, I suppose, but then the cat would be out of the bag and I'd like this to be a surprise. Not that we haven't talked or at least alluded to it. I just want very badly for her to have the 'fairy tale,' you know?"

"Yes, I do, and she'll love you for it."


(Creative Commons image by Allie's Dad via Flickr)

A Spy for an Evening

Last night I felt a little like Arnold Schwarzenegger. Not in the sense that I've been approached about running for governor of California or suddenly developed a Mr. Universe physique. Being a medical student has headaches enough -- I think I'll pass on politics -- and believe me, I'm light years from looking like Adonis. No, it was Schwarzenegger as Harry Tasker in the film, True Lies, a mild-mannered computer salesman to his wife and daughter, and a spy to the rest of the world. It's the film in which Jamie Lee Curtis utters the line probably every man wishes his wife would at some point in their marriage, i.e. "I married Rambo."

Now, the similarity I felt didn't result from a backstreet run-in with terrorists or a secretive midnight flight to Geneva. It was more mundane than that; it came about when my dance instructor announced we'd be learning the Tango. If you've seen True Lies, you probably have a mental image of Schwarzenegger casually taking the time to dance a Tango with the gorgeous Tia Carrere while his buddies, monitoring his activity by radio, are going nuts because any second he could be discovered by the bad guys.

It made the evening fun, anyway, imaging myself learning skills that might come in handy if I'm ever called upon to serve my country under cover. I know, fat chance -- both of serving under cover and having Tia Carrere as a partner. But the Tango is very romantic and even going through the motions of learning it creates an air of sophistication that made me feel as though I should have been dressed in a tuxedo instead of jeans and sport shirt.

We only practiced the essential steps last night, which means we left out the part where the man appears to drag his partner across the floor. We did, however, include a sensuous move allowing the woman to lean tantalizingly close and then back away, but only so far as your arms will allow. You don't have to be Schwarzenegger, nor does your partner have to be a luscious female secret agent, to appreciate that. I suppose it helps, but there's always fantasy and on the dance floor, imagination can be as good as the real thing.

Even if it only turns you into a spy for an evening.

(Creative Commons image of the Tango by formfactor via Flickr)

Bringing Out My "Best Behavior"

The problem with writing about chivalry is I don't know what to say about women. About how they should behave. Partly this is due to not being one, I'm sure, though I recall well what my mother and some of the elder women of my youth said about it. Short skirts aren't ladylike, a woman who drinks like a man is looking for trouble, women who swear like a sailors are uncouth. Things like that. More social commentary than advice, prompting me to consider carefully who I brought home.

As a consequence, I think my education was somewhat incomplete when I entered the big, wide world on my own as a seminarian. Overall, my impression was, if I acted like a gentleman, a woman would respond by acting like a lady. In other words, she'd be the genuine article -- appreciative, pleasant, and truthful about herself. Women will be the first to tell you, this isn't always the case, just as it isn't with men. Chivalry may cover a multitude of sins, just not all of them.

What I've learned over time from those I'd stake my honor on their being both women and ladies is, they possess a sense of themselves that is unmistakable. I guess you could say they're conscious of the impression they make and endeavor to make one that engenders respect. To put it another way, they have been women who knew themselves and were confident in their knowledge of what was important to them.

In their presence, whatever our relationship, they brought out my "best behavior." I wanted to be a gentleman because it seemed the only appropriate response to the quality of persons they were. Language that might "slip" in other contexts became the occasion for an apology, whether it was necessary or not. In situations where standing when one entered the room would have been out of place, I still felt self-conscious not doing so.

I guess what I'm driving at this morning is, both ladylike and gentlemanly, while behavioral by observation, go much deeper. The character of Eliza Doolittle, from My Fair Lady, depicts how one can learn the skills to fit into polite society, but as Henry Higgins discovered, there was so much more to her than he imagined. She was a lady long before she looked the part. It was his vision that needed alteration as it sometimes is also ours.


(Creative Commons image of Eliza Doolittle, Covent Garden, by Micheo via Flickr)

What Women Have Taught Me (about Women)

Reading advice to men from women has always been a favorite with me. A guy can learn a lot from the opposite sex and mostly, all he has to do is ask. Be sincere, genuine, admit he hasn't got a clue, and doors open. If only getting a date were so simple.

Naturally, it's important to ask the right women and for me, that's usually meant those who seem like they're in the know. The truth is, experience counts and who better to offer advice based on it than those who've accumulated some in the first place?

It's also important how you ask because women can't be expected to be disloyal to their gender nor do they want to give away the family jewels. What I mean is, there are some things they're simply not going to tell you, no matter how nicely you broach the subject, so don't expect the equivalent of who really shot JFK. That said, there are others they'd love to coach you about, such as how to tell if a woman finds you attractive.

I know this to be a fact because I asked once -- how could I know, that is, not whether any did or not. I'm only willing to risk so much self-esteem. What I learned may surprise you. Sure, there was the old, do her pupils dilate when she looks at you, but the problem with this is, the light might be bad and they'd be dilated anyway. Besides, it's more subtle than that.

For instance, when talking with two men, which one is a woman's body facing or at least angled towards? Whose posture is she mirroring? Looking closer, at which of the two do her eyes light up? These are unconscious cues that can speak volumes, especially if the other guy's one of the Backstreet Boys and you think you haven't got a chance.

On a more obvious note, does a woman go out of her way to speak to you? Is she easily drawn into conversation with lots of eye contact? This is no time to develop fumble fingers -- hang onto the ball for dear life and make up something to talk about if you have to. When you're wearing a jacket, does she pick lint from your shoulder or lapel and then smooth the fabric? See guys? Haven't I been telling you to wear sport coats?

The point is, become a student of women. Speak less and observe more. Learn the nuances of body language and conversational style, pay attention to detail. Don't be afraid to approach a mentoring type (moms don't count) and ask a few honest questions. Oh, and uh, one more thing: buy a decent sport jacket and whatever you do, don't leave it hanging in the closet.


(Creative commons image entitled "Hands" by michael.newman via Flickr)

Good Girls and Bad Boys

If you hang around men long enough -- I've been doing this all my life, by the way -- one question that almost inevitably comes up is, why do some women date guys the rest of us guys wouldn't have as a friend if we were paid for it. Another way of putting it is, why do really nice women seem to end up dating first class jerks (and being miserable) when they could have someone like us (and be happy)? Something tells me if I really knew the definitive answer, I could write a book and finally afford that condo in Aspen. As it is, I have a couple of ideas, and fool that I am, I figure why not give it a go?

First of all, I don't think most women set out, consciously and deliberately, to land a jerk. Instead, they'd like someone who, among other things, is interesting, relatively nice looking, and comfortable with himself. In short, he exudes confidence and seems interested in them. At this, bad boys excel, at first. The trouble is, arrogance can be very good at masquerading as confidence and the attention these types offer lasts only as long as it takes to turn the conversation toward themselves. By then, however, a woman may have convinced herself the fellow she was initially attracted to is hiding, shyly, beneath the bravado and all she has to do is uncover him.

It's possible to spend a long time -- perhaps a lifetime -- digging. Wedding bells ring and children come along, while she's gone through spade after spade and keeps coming up empty-handed. Meanwhile, all the good guys she could have dated have either moved on or, if any are still footloose and fancy-free, she's wondering why they couldn't nab her attention. We wonder that, too.

Partly, it's due to the fact that nice guys don't generally present much of a challenge. Because they're nice, they're approachable, genuine, and considerate. Us guys like them because they're easy to get along with. Women also find them easy, though in a different way, and this is one reason why they say nice guys finish last. Women generally prefer men who are worthy of them, and since they don't wish to appear overly-eager, they don't want a man who's standing next to the boat with the net in one hand, placing the hook in his own mouth with the other. Too-easy-to-catch looks too much like too-fearful-to-stand-up-for-yourself, and if a man can't do that for himself, a woman doubts his ability to do it for her. Women like courage.

A "bad" guy is a wild horse waiting to be tamed for the woman who finds the idea of being the "horse whisperer" an ego boost. Others enjoy basking in the radiance of his manliness, on the odd assumption that manliness is demonstrated by being a butthead. It's really not, but it fits a certain stereotype. There is also the stereotyped nice guy with a raging bull underneath all his respectability. Neither one would most of us men want for a friend -- they just aren't trustworthy.

So, where does this leave us? Not too far from where we started, actually. It's a real dilemma. It helps a great deal if a guy can develop some confidence and learn how to use it to his advantage. One way is to practice not being desperate. I'd suggest a guy work on his "I find you attractive but that doesn't mean I need you" skills. A woman who's got to have a bad boy won't be satisfied with anything else, so don't waste your time or hers. The one you want is the one who wouldn't mind at all being with a good guy -- just so long as you don't have to lean on her in order to stand on your own two feet.


(Creative Commons image by Toni Verd via Flickr)

Dear Sigmund (A Letter)

Dear Sigmund:

It's that time of year again, when the early sun reflects off the trees in the back yard, turning my north-facing bedroom window into a visual alarm clock. 6.00 AM this morning it "rang," and things are only going to get worse with the approach of summer. For a night person, this is cause for serious groaning. Naturally, I've tried to stave off the inevitable intrusion with a set of curtains, but they only seem to magnify the effect. Since fighting with Mother Nature seems futile, I've decided to use your defensive strategy of sublimation -- converting my resentment into productivity and hence, this letter.

Wherever you are, I hope you are well and find the company to your liking. Mine, at the moment, is a male turkey in the backyard beckoning for his lady friends to the delight and fascination of my cat, sitting in the window, watching. Personally, I love the progression of life that presents in these simple ways. It's a wonderful corrective to all the stress I manage to accumulate in the hours before sleep once again relieves me of the burden of consciousness. You like that, I know, because then the real drama begins.

I came across a quote by French author and filmmaker, Marguerite Duras, that I also think you'll like. She said, "I believe that always, or almost always, in all childhood, and all the lives that follow, the mother represents madness. Our mothers always remain the strangest, craziest people we've ever met." I know nothing of the relationship between her mother and she, but mine had ways of making me wonder, occasionally, whether I'd been born on another planet and was just visiting this one.

For instance, I recall her belief that some children were genetically predisposed to become academic high achievers. That little tidbit followed me into adulthood, fortunately to be torpedoed amidships by the realities of medical school. Genes are great, but hard work brings home the bacon. And besides, we all have to find ourselves and that, too, is a work -- one in progress for most of us.

Child rearing can drive anyone crazy once in a while, no matter who they are or how well they do it. I couldn't have been the easiest task mine ever undertook and that we both got through my youth with most of our marbles still in the bag is nothing short of miraculous. Mothers and madness? Shoot, I think it comes with the territory and God bless any woman who's nervy enough to give it a try.

All the best,

Beggar

The Handless Maiden

"Do yourself a favor: put aside logic and do what feels right." ~ Mr. Spock (Star Trek 2009)

Depth psychologists such as Robert A. Johnson have long lamented the wounding of the feeling function in contemporary society. Fairy tale imagery provides a vivid way of envisioning how readily we may abandon our capacity for feeling, leaving ourselves diminished and unfulfilled. The story of The Handless Maiden reveals how this may occur among women and also men.

Once upon a time there was a miller who, with his wife and daughter, owned a mill. One day the devil appeared and offered the miller increased production and wealth in exchange for what lay behind the mill. The miller agreed and things went very well. Three years later, the devil appeared again, wishing his due. The miller thought an old tree stood behind the mill and he'd get away with the best part of the deal. In fact, it was his daughter. Unwilling to give up his now more profitable mill, he turns over his daughter and the devil takes her hands in payment.

Although cared for by her family, she becomes depressed and one day, wanders into the forest where she grows hungry. Coming upon a pear orchard, she manages to eat, but is discovered. The king is summoned and when he sees who has been eating his pears, he is moved with compassion for her missing hands. They fall in love, wed, and he orders silver hands to be made for her, so great is his affection.
 
Now the wonder of the kingdom, people come from far and wide to see her lovely hands. Eventually, she has a child whom she yearns to hold and care for, but of course, she is unable. The king, a good but typical husband, tries to solve the problem by reassuring her that servants can perform this task for her. Even in fairy tales, we men want to fix things. 

One day, while picnicking near a river, her child falls in the water. In great distress, she calls for help but there is no one near. Without thinking, she thrusts her silver hands into the water and lo! they are changed magically into real ones. She saves her child and coincidentally, herself as well.

The devil's offer is deceptive. Thinking he might get something for nothing, the miller accepts only to find himself having to choose between she who should have been his greatest treasure and his pocketbook. From the outset, The Handless Maiden presents us with conflicting values. By choosing profit over his daughter, the miller represents the sacrifice of feeling for material gain. His sense of values is twisted, misplaced, and his daughter pays the price. 

The miller's daughter possesses dual significance. Taking the story more literally, she represents those who are vulnerable, who may become victims of outdated social customs or the unscrupulous. On a deeper level, she represents the feeling function, i.e. our capacity for knowing and preserving our values and making decisions based upon them. When women do not receive equal pay for equal work, it is because they and their contributions are considered of lesser value than those of a man in the same position. When we fail to do what we think is right because of what others might think, when we fail to stand up for the disadvantaged, when we fail to speak out against prejudice and ignorance, we handicap our feeling function.

For men, the sacrifice of the young feminine produces a sense of worthlessness, loneliness, and malaise. We know something important has been given up and the exchange leaves us cold. For women, it represents frustration and helplessness over being treated as second-rate outside the realms of courting and child-bearing. Even when the maiden finds the right man, one who recognizes her woundedness and does all in his power to help, she is still powerless to act on her own. Her silver hands, signifying wealth and beauty, result in her being on display.

Her healing or redemption comes about only when she takes action on her own behalf. Unable to summon help in time to save her child, she does what she alone could do, and that act is transforming. When society and culture collude to deprive women and men of their capabilities in the name of profit or convenience, it is the feeling function that suffers.

Being cared for, being on display, is an inadequate basis for self-worth. As a queen, the maiden had all the assistance she could ask for, but it still wasn't enough. She wanted to touch and feel for herself. The values of her culture, though acceptable in the beginning (she does not object to the loss of her hands), have become far too restrictive. She needs to be free to define herself on her own terms. Reclaiming the feeling function, for both women and men, is a place to begin.

Turning Point

One of the turning points in my own life took place in the mid-90s when I encountered depth psychology. It came about at a time when I was looking for a way to better interpret and make sense of the ways life had unfolded, and its emphasis on symbolic images within the psyche was very appealing. Even more helpful was time spent with a Jungian analyst, who insisted the image was less important than the way I took it to heart.

Two of these images are ones that appear in the dreams of men and women, usually in the form of contrasexual figures. Sometimes they are recognizable, a friend, former or current lover, and sometimes we can't place them at all. In any case, their function is to reveal aspects of ourselves that have been neglected or have the capability of enhancing our lives. They don't necessarily represent real persons and instead, serve as symbols of the persons we wish to become, of directions we need to take in personal growth.

Jung called the female figure, the anima, and the male figure, the animus. The former shows up in the dreams of men and the latter in those of women. Now, to be sure, there are other figures who populate our dreams, and we can get to them as time goes along. For now, though, I'd like to concentrate on the animus. Tomorrow we'll develop the anima.

The first thing to keep in mind is, these do not represent a man's "feminine side" or a woman's "masculine side." We often speak in those terms because we associate certain qualities with masculinity and femininity, something reflected in dream imagery. But strictly speaking, the attributes revealed by the anima and animus transcend gender. Personally, I think assigning gender to the traits revealed by these figures gets in the way of what we need to learn, but that's me.

It's simplest to try to visualize the animus and here the film industry comes to our aid. In the movie, Medicine Man, biochemist Rae Crane is sent by a drug company to the Amazon basin in search of one of their scientists, reclusive Robert Campbell. From the very beginning, Campbell challenges her assumptions. This is one of the things an animus does for a woman. She begins the film relying on a corporate image for self-definition and by the ending, has chosen one uniquely suited to herself.

Anima/animus figures can be negative (inhibiting, critical, persecuting) or positive (encouraging, nurturing, vitalizing). For Crane, the negative animus is associated with conventionality and represented by a wealthy young man to whom she has become engaged. Pointing out that her fiance is a major financial contributor who comes from "good stock," Campbell hints her choice was motivated by social acceptability and not necessarily her own preferences. 

When a woman chooses conventionality over originality, it's because she has given in to an image of womanhood derived from the expectations of others. Her task is to establish an identity based on what she envisions for herself, which may or may not be in agreement with the one assigned and approved by society.

As a positive animus, Campbell also forces Crane to look closely at the resources she possesses for dealing with life. Hiking through the jungle, for instance, she develops a massive headache and asks Campbell for an aspirin. He brushes her request aside and hands her a local remedy made from the bark of the Yoko tree. This scene shows how the healing of her identity, the cure of her soul, requires her to embrace intuition and become more instinctive.

In a late night encounter with the village medicine man, she receives a tatoo on her forehead marking her as a person in transition. She is moving away from the person she was toward a stronger, independent character. In the final scene, we see that she has abandoned the heavy boots she wore when arrived in the jungle that represent protection from the passion of real life, and now walks with bare feet through the jungle, like the native villagers. She's gotten in touch with her capacity for making her own choices as opposed to those made for her. Instead of returning to civilization and marrying her fiance, she decides to remain with Campbell, suggesting the changes she's undergone are permanent and there's no going back to the way she used to be.

Whether a woman chooses to use dream imagery or depictions in film or literature as a guide, the image of the positive animus points in the direction of wholeness. It urges a woman to be true to herself, trust her own judgment, and develop new avenues for growth and fulfillment. The women I described in my recent post on relationships are all ones who have nurtured healthy relationships with their animus, becoming not less feminine but more so, as they become completely themselves.

Finding the Right Woman When Your &%$! Stinks

A few years ago, a friend of mine and I were talking about how to recognize the right woman when or if she came along. It was one of those late evenings when we were sufficiently weary to be brutally honest and honestly, we were at a loss. Then I remembered a piece of advice I'd heard from a fellow minister-graduate student, "Beg, you need to find a woman who loves you when your &%$! stinks." Simple, unarguable, and to the point.

But is that all there is to it? Being loved despite your blemishes? Predictably, I don't think so and I've turned to women I admire for help. I haven't asked for comments as much as I've observed the ways they cope under stress, how they act around men they care for, and listened to them speak candidly. I've particularly noted how they've treated me and how that felt. This is what I think I've discovered.

For men, the experience of &%$! stinking is related to feeling exposed and vulnerable, though most of the time we're not remotely aware of it. At times like these, loving means taking us seriously, especially if you're the only one who does. When you listen to and reflect on what we have to say while all others have "changed channels," that's really quite something. It tells us we genuinely matter to you.

When you're courageous enough to stand with us, knowing our self-esteem is on the line, and you place yours alongside it, that's absolutely incredible. Not all women can do this, sadly, nor all men. It takes a very special person to take a risk with another when the outcome is uncertain. It requires confidence and a solid, secure sense of self. It tells us we're more important to you than what others may think of you.

Being believed in is huge. We may not always seem like the most insightful of beasts, but generally guys can tell when faith is insincere. If the encouragement we receive is superficial or doesn't cost anything to give, we may not say anything, but we know it. On the other hand, I have a very good friend who used to remind me of her certainty I'd get into medical school. The tone of her voice had the effect of erasing any possibility of doubt. Your faith tells us we won't disappoint you.
If we were having that same late night conversation now, I'd say the right woman is one who believes in and respects you. She has confidence in herself and doesn't need to sacrifice you to reinforce it. She is stable under fire, and possesses depth and integrity. None of this is about age, by the way, because some of the women who've been my role models are much younger than me. I hate to use the word maturity, though it does apply. More appropriate is the word, character. If she's has that, well, what else does she need?

(Note to the reader: tomorrow's post will address the "right man")

Kingship in the Coming Year

I was just listening to the opening title sequence for the Kenneth Branagh version of Henry V (1989) and realized I've never written about this film. Branagh is probably far better known to my medical school peers for his role as the flamboyant Professor Gilderoy Lockhart in the 2002 film, Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets. But I think he's at his best when playing Shakespearean characters and in Henry V, he is awesome.

The setting for the story is the English invasion of France in 1415 during the Hundred Years War. The capture of the city of Harfleur as well as the Battle of Agincourt are key events that reveal the leadership capabilities of young (age 29) Henry. At Harfleur he rallies his troops crying, "Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more, or close up the wall with our English dead," and leads the charge into the city. Prior to engaging the more numerous French forces at Agincourt, Henry delivers what has become known as the St. Crispen's Day speech in which he declares, "He who sheds his blood with me this day, shall be my brother, be he ne're so vile."

Henry V provides us with a visual image of healthy kingship, a concept which functions psychologically in humans, both female and male, to bring about self-organization, calm determination in the face of stress, and the willingness to assume responsible leadership. Children whose parents are unaware of, or unable to access, their inner king or queen, grow up in environments that tend to be chaotic and stressful, where limits are either unknown or extreme and boundaries often non-existent.

Parents who model kingly and queenly virtues, demonstrate self-control, healthy coping skills, and encourage their children rather than acting as obstacles to the achievement of their own unique potential. Even in the absence of children, couples who access kingly energy create an atmosphere of welcome and peace within a home, making it a place where you feel good just being a guest.

Faced with a new year and all that it may bring, being mindful of the inner king or queen can exert a stabilizing influence on our lives. Imagining ourselves as capable, centered, and adequate to the tasks ahead helps free us from feeling uncertain and overwhelmed. We don't know what Henry felt that day, seeing thousands of mounted French knights charging toward him across the Field of Agincourt, but we know he didn't lose his nerve and we know he didn't run. Accessing our inner royal presence can have the same effect on us.

The Cougar Phenomenon

Well, it's really gone public now, the Cougar Phenomenon, I mean. This season, a new television show entitled, Cougar Town, will debut. It's about two women who relocate to a town where, it turns out, all the available men are younger than either of them. Golly, what a coincidence. I'm sure the producers would like it become the stuff of comic legend. I like Courtney Cox, so I hope she has a winner.

Anyway, when I'm asked what I think about this (the theme, not the show), I have to say I'm surprised it's taken so long to catch on. Speaking from experience, it's extremely flattering to be a younger man and find an older woman is interested. For one thing, you realize you've got enough game to actually be appealing to someone who has more experience, may have a successful career, and could easily make other choices. Instead, she chooses you. Wow.

At the same time, it's not so surprising when you think of the limitations women have had, and still have, to overcome to achieve genuine social equality. And not women only; interracial dating has only gained acceptance in recent years and, in some locales, I'm sure it's frowned upon even today. So, in a real sense, romantic relationships between younger men and older women are the natural result of women becoming freer to express themselves.

But relationships are complicated things (as if you didn't know that already) and the reasons for attraction are as varied as the persons involved. I think it's grossly unfair to assign blanket attributions to sex, unresolved Oedipal desires for mother, or any other generalization that strikes a fancy. Truthfully, one of the best things that could come from all of this is a change in the ways we describe a relationship as appropriate or not. It seems to me that it's far more important to be concerned about mutual respect, compatibility, and yes, love, than whether a couple fits within a given socially-acceptable category. But that's me and, hey, what can I say?


(Image by digitalART2 via Flickr)

Holding a Grudge

Image via Wikipedia

I think the worst kind of grudges are the ones we hold because someone failed to be the person we expected. But it's not only that they aren't who we expected them to be, it's how they dared to be anything but. We do this especially with parents. We've known them all our lives or so we think, and we arrive at adulthood only to discover they've been someone else all along.

How can this happen? Have we been deceived, have they led us on a merry chase for twenty or thirty years only to turn round and cry with wicked grins, "Surprise"? I don't think so, or at least not intentionally. As we grow up, our relationships with parents change and we become, or at least we ought to be, more capable of experiencing a person in their fullness.

When my father passed away, one of the most intriguing things that happened to me was visiting with his friends. Their relationships with him were far different from mine, and with their help I began to realize there was a great deal about him to which I had never been privy. I came away from these encounters wondering just who it was I'd grown up with. There was so much I'd never known and to which I'd paid so little attention.

Despite the common conception, age does not necessarily correlate with self-knowledge. Coming to know ourselves, as advised by the Oracle at Delphi in ancient Greece (Gnothi seauton: know yourself intimately), doesn't always get the attention it deserves. Ironically, neither does knowledge of others. We structure our lives based on assumptions that allow us to feel secure. When reality intrudes, we can feel disrupted and resentful. Grudges ensue.

The freedom we value for ourselves we need to grant to others. I've written several times about the mystery that presents itself in the face of another, lover and stranger alike. Grudges only serve to isolate us. They enshroud with the mask of angry familiarity and prevent us from knowing as truly as we wish to be known. Intended to protect against pain, they only create more, making all of us losers in the end.


(Image from Wikipedia)

Dream Girl

We were introduced by a friend. I called the next day, we talked a while and agreed to meet. It wasn't really a date, just a walk in the late autumn evening chill, but that's all we needed. It was my last year in high school and I've never forgotten her. She was just seventeen (if you know what I mean - thank you, Lennon and McCartney), I was a year older, and she was the love of my life.

It only lasted a few months, but the memory of sitting as close as humanly possible in darkened theaters, losing track of the story line because we were too busy looking at each other, is as fresh as the mist falling on the hayfield as I write. I can see her face, upturned to meet mine, with snowflakes in her hair. It's funny how these things stay with you.

We ran into each other once after graduation -- it was by accident in a shopping mall. She was dating a sometime friend of mine and for all I know, they married and had eight kids. We stopped, said hello, and then she was gone; that's the last time I would see her.

But every now and then, long after I'm asleep, she appears. Never saying a word, she takes my hand and we walk in the silence. I never quite know what to make of these nocturnal visits. They come when least expected and leave me with questions. What she knows is secret -- her lips are sealed as only a dream girl's can be, but her face is always upturned and I'm glad.

(I Saw Her Standing There, by John Lennon and Paul McCartney, Capital Records, 1963)

Transformation

A long time ago in a galaxy far, far away, I taught masculine psychology using segments from film to illustrate key points. Ok, I'll be honest, it wasn't all that long ago and it didn't occur in another galaxy, but the rest is true. I was interested in the way contemporary film depicted situations involving conflict, loss, growth, and transformation and experimented using various scenes as springboards for discussion.

As it turned out, it was a very effective tool because it allowed us to actually see a situation unfold and in many cases, it was extremely evocative. In a discussion about the role of fathers in parenting, we viewed scenes from Field of Dreams and at one point, nearly all of the men were wiping tears. These great guys were literally hungry for something to help them become better husbands, fathers, and men. They wanted to experience reconciliation in their relationships and within themselves.

One of the things I've noticed is, there are a number of films that depict male characters trying to cope with failure, right an old wrong, or achieve something personally meaningful. Rudy, The Natural, Invincible, and The Ghost and the Darkness, come to mind immediately.

Films depicting female transformation, however, aren't as common and that's unfortunate. Norma Rae and Fried Green Tomatoes are among the best, as well as John MacTiernan's Medicine Man with Lorraine Bracco and Sean Connery.

To tell the truth, I think Medicine Man may just be the best example I've ever seen and I'll tell you why. In this film, Dr. Rae Crane (Bracco) is a biochemist who journeys to the Amazon Basin to find elusive scientist Dr. Robert Campbell (Connery). When she arrives, she is a woman of the city, competent, smart, and wise in the ways of the corporate drug industry. As the story unfolds, she finds herself in conflict with Campbell, the environment, and her beliefs about herself.

As much as I'd like to outline the story for you I'm going to resist: it's too good and you should see it for yourself. What I will tell you is, she comes to new awareness of who she is, not what others have made her out to be. She is admirable, courageous, and eventually connects with her own strength to make the choices of the heart. If you think I love this film, you're right. I hope you will, too.