The Tougher of the Two Sexes? Sorry fellas, it Ain’t Even Close!

For most of my life I thought that men were tougher than women. Men are usually stronger, bigger, and faster. If it came down to a fight, most of the time, I would bet on the guy. Most war movies and action flicks have a male star in the dominant role. We play more contact sports like football, hockey, boxing, and martial arts, though this is evolving.

Most generations grew up thinking that we were supposed to be tougher. We are not supposed to like “chick flicks”, pink, and music by Barry Manilow. No crying. There was even a book called “Real Men Don’t Eat Quiche”. No mimosas for me, bar keep, get me a beer and a shot of Jack.

As I’ve gotten older though, I have come to realize it was just an illusion.

Sure, guys will always be recognized for hard, physical labor. No guy hanging steel on an eighty-story skyscraper will ever be accused of being soft. Nor will a guy jack hammering concrete in 95-degree heat. Or the guys working in the blast furnace at a steel mill. Or construction workers and lumberjacks. That type of strength is unquestioned.

The strength I am referring to is inner strength, not numbers on a barbell.

Let’s use childbirth as an example. Had this function been assigned to men, I am convinced humanity would have ended shortly after the Adam and Eve era, with Adam content to sit on the couch, guiltlessly eating apples by the dozen and watching reruns of hyenas and wild dogs fighting in the desert.

Anyway, childbirth. All guys, in the history of guys, that have witnessed this first-hand, walk out of the delivery room with that “holy crap” kind of look. There is a reason for the lone stool in the room and it is reserved for the new dad just in case he gets queasy. Now imagine those same men charged with slowly passing nine and a half pounds of baby through his most sensitive body part over the course of several hours. Throw in an episiotomy to accommodate a 13-inch head circumference. Blood, fluids, placenta, pushing and pain. Stitches or staples.

Game over. Never again. The next kid is a basset hound.

But having babies is just part of it. Never mind nursing, sleepless nights, and diapers. Getting multiple kids, some that are crying and screaming, cleaned, fed, dressed and out the door to school. Every day. For years. Before going to work.

What about doctoring? Women surrender all humility and never complain about it. Lights, camera, stirrups. Multiple kinds of invasive instruments, mammograms, and pap smears. Guys, on the other hand, vividly remember their first hernia check and the horror of how they had to cough. Twice.

We were out for dinner with friends recently and the men were regaling their nightmarish first prostate exam. Hardly appropriate over bruschetta, but still fascinating. You would think such violation, as we saw it, should have resulted in a Hallmark card from the doctor, or perhaps a dinner invitation. The girls listened with amusement and rolled their eyes.

Then there is pain and sickness. Overall, we handle pain well, as we were taught at a young age to ignore it. In fact, men often must be convinced by women to see a doctor as three days of chest pain sometimes is not enough to convince us that something is wrong. But catch a cold or a fever and forget it. We need a blanket, 7-Up, someone to go to the drugstore and get “whatever that stuff is that worked last time” and at least a days-worth of Andy Griffith reruns. Women shove a Kleenex up a sleeve and are good to go.

Men believe that we were born with an internal manual on all possible subjects, chiseled in concrete, explaining how to do everything. And we never ever never need any help. Never. Sometimes we’re right and sometimes we’re that other thing, but we’re always right. We do not need a plumber, techie, map, or instructions. Especially instructions. We will cuss at an innate object repeatedly because it does not assemble right, until the wife calmly makes a silly suggestion like reading the instructions.

What does she know? Leave us alone and let us screw it up in lack of peace and no quiet.

Patience? No time for it. Tolerance? Shove it. Costs? Why can’t she wear a used dress for Homecoming?

And finally, capacity. In any successful relationship, each person must contribute their fair share and each relationship is different. Who does what doesn’t matter if what needs to be done gets done. However, the delegation of duties scale seems to tip to one side. I think this can best be illustrated by turning on the Discovery channel.

Watch any show including lions. The male, king of the forest, watches over his pride and occasionally fights off another lion, who is also considered a king. The kings make a big fuss and get everyone’s attention but usually nothing serious comes of it. Busy day. The female scouts for food, often traveling long distances and in coordination with other females to ensure the pride eats. No matter how unbearably hot, they hunt it down, and if successful, kill it, have a few bites, and feed the young. That’s unless said king gets up from under the shady tree and decides he is going to eat it. The females can just go to the Wildebeest-mart.

Once full, he heads to the water hole for a drink and checks out a few hot gazelles. Meanwhile, the female stays back in the den, watching the offspring play and teaching critical life skills, many of which are needed to survive into adulthood. She finds a suitable place to live, keeps them safe and shows them off to the other lions once they get older.

After a few drinks, the king eventually comes back, sometimes feeling amorous and expecting a positive response, regardless of how tired she is. He shows his affection by gnawing on the back of her neck. Smooth like a cactus.

Mess with a little lion and mama will literally rip your face off. Sound familiar?

To be clear, this is not a knock on my gender. I love being a guy. Lots of guys are perfect mates just the way they are. I know that some will say “speak for yourself”, but after 31 years of marriage, I am not embarrassed to say which one of us can do, learn, and deal with more. And it isn’t me. However, I am still better at moving heavy boxes. As long as it’s tomorrow.

This column originally appeared in the Times, a Shaw publication.