Read something about that "men in crisis" thing the other week. I was sitting in my rented home, nursing a hangover and perusing my favourite quality broadsheet, when I stumbled across this article about masculinity in crisis. At the time, I was engrossed in a scintillating interview with the supermodel Caprice, so I certainly didn't want to waste precious time reading some pop psychology piffle which would surely end in an exhortation to get in touch with my feelings or - worse - start eating quiche.
Curiosity got the better of me, however, so I reluctantly broke away from the Caprice piece (she was just about to reveal what she wore in bed and how little of it there was) to get the low-down on this male crisis stuff. Well, you know, as they say, forewarned is forearmed.
The news was pretty bad. While I was busy listening to Led Zeppelin, watching The Fast Show and hanging out at Lillie's Bordello, the previously impregnable fortress of maledom has been under heavy siege. Women have surged ahead in every field of endeavour, outperforming men in the classroom, the boardroom and the bedroom. The old male order has been crumbling, traditional men's roles are becoming redundant, and masculine values of power, aggression and control are being undermined.
Apparently men have lost their sense of purpose: they are no longer needed as fathers, breadwinners or protectors, and so are surplus to requirements for which they used to be crucial. Women can now bring up children by themselves, earn their own living (often earning more than their male counterparts) and take care of themselves in the big bad world. Men, in contrast, are becoming impotent in more ways than one: unemployment, depression, ill-health, suicide - all these are on the increase among young males. The only things men seem to be excelling in are the primal pursuits of rape, assault, drug addiction, adultery, child molestation and murder.
Prof Anthony Clare laid out the whole male malaise in his book, On Men - Masculinity in Crisis, and it makes for scarier reading than the entire output of Stephen King.
Torn between testosterone and terror, between puerile attitudes and political correctness, between misogyny and self-loathing, men are apparently completely confused about how to conduct themselves as adults. We don't want to be sexually aggressive, because that is insulting to women; but we don't want to be simpering wimps either, because - as anyone in Lillie's will tell you - nice guys go home alone. We want to act the hard man, drinking Guinness and puffing Marlboro, but we conveniently ignore the scientific evidence that one may make you go soft around the belly, and the other may give you emphysema.
When you read those true-life stories of one brave person's battle against some debilitating disease or other, you tend to think, "that will never happen to me". This is the typical male knee-jerk reaction on reading the evidence of masculine decline in the recent reviews and features about male crisis. The tales of men in counselling, in confusion, in pain, on Viagra and on the verge of nervous breakdown can elicit sneers of "cry-baby, crybaby, run home to your mammy and maybe she'll make you some quiche". Imagine going down the pub and telling your mates: "lads, I'm going through a bit of a masculine crisis right now, so be gentle, caring and nurturing with me". You'd get a right slap.
Finishing the article, I sat back, poured myself another bowl of cornflakes and a cup of coffee, put on Eminem's CD and went back to my Caprice interview, thanking my lucky stars I had so far avoided this dreaded syndrome. There, but for the grace of God, etc. Good thing I turned out OK. Really. Everything's great. Absolutely fabulous, tip-top, couldn't be better. Crisis? What crisis?
I am a single male approaching the age of 42. I suffer from anxiety, disturbed sleep, lack of motivation and recurring feelings of existential terror. I used to have frequent panic attacks, and though they've tailed off in the past year, I'm still fearful and anxious in unfamiliar situations. I'm afraid to die, but I'm scared to live.
I've clocked up one broken-off engagement and a trail of broken relationships, yet I'm still optimistic that Cameron Diaz will suddenly walk in and declare her undying love for me. I drive a battered, rusty old Honda, I live in rented accommodation, my finances are in complete disarray, and my life is in need of some feng shui. I spend far too much time in pubs and clubs, staying out late in a desperate bid to keep up with the 20-something Celtic tigers. When I'm at home, I watch too much telly, eat too many TV dinners, and - as Robbie Williams so euphemistically put it - the pause button's broken on my video.
Despite my full social calendar, I haven't built up a solid network of reliable friends - almost everyone I meet is either a colleague, a casual social acquaintance or someone in a band. Many of my closest friends are married with children, and aren't always available to join me on the razz. My older single friends are reluctant to accompany me because, well, it's full of young people and loud techno music, isn't it? Often, as I sit in Renard's, The Corrs on one side and social diarists on the other, I have a strange, uncomfortable feeling of being lonely in a crowd.
Crisis? What crisis? I've never been in better shape.
Meanwhile, my women friends all drive good cars, own their own houses, are progressing nicely in their careers, have so many best friends they don't know what to do with them, and are never stuck for company when they want to go out for a night on the town. They've got pension plans, investments and savings accounts and they've got very clear ideas about where they want to be in five years' time. They either have successful, crisis-free boyfriends, or don't want a boyfriend right now, because, to be honest, they're fed up getting jerked around by guys who don't know what they want but are still quite willing to shop around for it behind their girlfriend's backs. In an ironic reversal of roles, women are putting relationships on hold and concentrating on their careers.
But is men's misfortune really good news for women? I wonder. As men's roles become ill-fitting and outworn, women are increasingly adopting traditional male behaviour and becoming "ladettes". They're smoking more, drinking more and generally being more "blokeish" in their dealings with the opposite sex. It's not unusual to see a group of women gathered around a pub table, lighting up fags and discussing penis size and sexual performance like a bunch of mechanics talking about cars. Sky One's Uncovered series regularly shows "slappers" out on the tiles in Ibiza or Greece, skulling enough drink to kill an average man, and then attempting to snog as many blokes as possible. Recently, a shelter for battered men was set up in Ireland, acknowledging that men too can suffer from violence at the hands of an abusive spouse.
So, not only are women outperforming men in the areas of work, creativity, social interaction and life achievement, they're also beating us hands-down at those other male pursuits of overindulgence, promiscuity, abuse and self-destruction. Maybe it's a side-product of the patriarchal system, or perhaps it's revenge for all the broken promises, cancelled dinner dates and clandestine affairs, but it looks to me as if we're not the only gender going through a tough time at the moment.
As I reached the end of my riveting Caprice interview, I began to acknowledge that Prof Clare's assertions about men were all too true, and that I was a near-perfect example of masculinity in crisis. Of course, I've always suspected as much - after all, the symptoms were there. But I also suspect that women are in crisis too - except now it's their turn to hide it all behind a facade of financial success, family stability and macho behaviour. It's our turn to do the girly thing and admit to being weak, lonely and in need of support.
I have resolved to take the bull by the horns and tackle that pesky masculine crisis right now, or next week, or sometime over the next few years. Maybe by the time I'm 50, I'll have sorted myself out a bit, and then me and Cameron Diaz can live happily ever after. I hear she loves a good night out with the ladettes.
manoverboard@irish-times.ie