Peter Andre - Be a Man: How I Spent One Year Drinking, Shaving, Farming, and Fathering My Way Toward Masculinity

BE A MAN

How I Spent One Year Drinking,
Shaving, Farming, and Fathering
My Way Toward Masculinity

PETER ANDRE

SHMOOP SHMOOP BOOKS New York

Copyright 2014 by Peter Andre

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

Printed in the United States of America

First Printing, 2014

ISBN 978-0-9907869-2-4

Cover design by Chris Whitmore

Shmoop Shmoop Books
shmoopshmoopbooks@gmail.com

For Q, bien sr

Contents

The Challenges

The Problem

O n September 29, 2012, I made the leap, took the plunge, tied the knot, and got hitched. In short, I liked it so I put a ring on it.

We took our vows outdoors, overlooking the mountains of southern Virginia with our friends and family. Before the ceremony, however, I was falling apart with stress. I had taken an hour to get ready and spent so much time worrying about my hair that I didnt even realize I was about to be late to my own wedding. Once I arrived at the site, I was concerned that the centerpieces and table settings were not in their right place, but I didnt want to bother the staff so I said nothing. Besides, more pressing issues required my attention. I still hadnt put on my custom-made attire, and my one and only was becoming impatient while I scrambled.

Finally, I was ready to go, and after I spent all morning fearing the impending rainstorm, the clouds somehow held out. I met my betrothed at our makeshift altar underneath a stunning Poplar tree, and after ten minutes that flew by like jet planes, we were married. After filling the photo album with every possible permutation of family and friends, including one favorite where I vogued it out with the bridesmaids, the reception began. We went right into a choreographed dance that we somehow pulled off despite being nervous as all get outlooks like my years of experience dancing in musical theater paid off. Afterwards, we gorged on some delicious food and cake, each bite a revelation since it marked the end of my pre-wedding diet. We danced the night away, made our grand exit, and drove off into the night as man and wife.

Now lets say you dont know me. Also, lets pretend you didnt read the title of the book or see my picture on the back cover. Finally, to really paint the picture, lets imagine that youve just awoken from a nine-year coma.

Youre discombobulated and cant move your atrophied limbs, so you scream out for help from your hospital bed. The door to your room creaks open and you expect to see a doctor or nurse, but instead I walk in. Hi! You ask me to explain where you are and what the contraptions attached to your body do, but I say: Whoa, take it easy, buddy! Who do you think I am, Dr. Oz? You dont get the reference because youve been in a coma for the last nine years.

I explain that I am a writer and prove it to you by reading the first three paragraphs of my book, and somewhere around the part when I eat wedding cake, you interrupt me and say: Wait-wait-WAIT. Who wrote this? The bride or the groom? And thats when you get the biggest shock of all, my formerly comatose friend. These words are my own.

My name is Peter Andre, and Im not a man. I take gummy vitamins. I require Band-Aids for paper cuts. Ive been called petite in mixed company.

Not that theres anything wrong with that, as a Seinfeld once said to a Costanza. It hasnt stopped me from enjoying my 26 years on Earth thus far. I married an absolutely wonderful woman and, to continue quoting 90s pop culture, she likes me for me. I have great friends, a loving family, and I feel content. But am I a man? They may have pronounced us man and wife, but that doesnt stop me from hesitating before I use that nomenclature for myself. I feel more at ease with young adult, but thats really only appropriate when followed with novel-turned-movie franchise. You wouldnt refer to me as a mans man, and certainly not a Mans Mans Man. The world James Brown sang about is as distant to me as Pluto.

Does a mans man even have a place in todays society? Ive seen countless articles written about the death of men, and each time I use emoji in text messages, the theory seems more plausible. But why would I choose adulthood when the alternative is so appealing? Our society allows for men-children like me to exist happily. I can binge-watch an entire television series over a weekend and be celebrated for it. I can use irony in all my conversations and avoid the embarrassment of being sincere. I can buy mouthwash without alcohol so it wont hurt my teethies. This is all considered acceptable behavior.

Still, I believe masculinity is relevant in spite of evidence to the contrary. Although the eternal adolescent has become a sanctioned lifestyle, the manly man is still admiredtheres a reason James Bond movies make a billion dollars.

Its time to embrace the part of me thats laid dormant for so much of my lifemy Y chromosome. Do you think Teddy Roosevelt did a choreographed dance routine at his wedding? Do you think John Wayne vogued it out with the bridesmaids? Do you think Joe Namath spent an hour fussing with his hair? (That last one maybe happened.) Its time for a life-altering changesomething beyond the tips and tricks found in mens lifestyle magazines.

Some time ago, I was walking down 34th Street in Manhattan with my wife Q after a particularly horrifying visit to Macys. Q is not her real name. Despite what I wished for on my eighth birthday, she is not James Bonds gadget maker and cant make me a jetpack that shoots lasers. Sorry, eight-year-old Peter.

So we were navigating the throng of people trudging down 34th Street, attempting to walk the one hundred feet from the Macys exit to the subway entrance, and in trying to keep up with Q, I allegedly cut off this huge muscle man casually sipping on a Frappuccino, and the man, without a word, punched me hard in the arm. I turned around, stunned, as he said in a deep baritone, Say excuse me.

Terrified, I blurted out, Sorry! Sorry! and ran to find Q. When she asked me what was wrong, all I could spit out was, That guy just hit me. That guy just punched me in the arm! as Muscle Man slipped back into the stampede of people.

Confrontations like this one happen all the time in big urban sprawls; Im not nave about that. I probably did cut him off and didnt say, Excuse me, good sir, as perhaps I should have. None of that bothers me. Okay, it pisses me off a little, but thats not the issue here. Im upset about how I reacted. A guy punches me and I say sorry. Twice. What does that say about me? What does that say about the respect I have for myself?

I told Q sincerely in our vows that I would help her if she needed help, but am I really capable of everything that encompasses? If somebody jumped out of a bush and attacked her, what would I do? Would I shrivel up? Or would I barely be able to spit out, Hes attacking you! That guy is attacking you!

Dont misunderstand me: Im not saying women need manly men to protect them. Ive know first hand that its quite to the contrary. Q once ran down two teenagers causing trouble at her pool while wearing her lifeguard bikini and a hard cast on her leg. She is a real man, and extremely assertive to boot; its what attracted me to her in the first place. Now I want that for myself. Im sick of being passive in the decisions I make and the risks I take. Its time to take action and let the chips fall where they may.

In a weird way, Muscle Man represents something Im striving for in myselfhe was strong, bold, and unwavering. He saw something that needed to be rectified, and he actually did something about it. He wouldnt grumble to himself and do nothing when someone cuts in line at Cinnabon. He wouldnt stay silent when people pushed into the subway car before he exited. He wouldnt lay awake in his bed, staring at the ceiling, while the partiers outside in the alley next to his apartment played club music and screamed at the top of their lungs at 4:30 in the morning last night, thinking, Oh, theyll probably stop any minute now when they realize its a school night. All hypothetical situations, of course.