Porridge every day sounds like a recipe for an unhappy life to me, but her statement does raise the question: if longevity is the goal, what, exactly, are men good for, apart from sex and reminding you when your wof is due?
I think that since the breaking-in of New Zealand’s paddock land and the rise of male politicians, many people might similarly be asking this same thing.
Which is why I present to you, 10 good things about men:
1. Men like to be on top. Not just "of the polls" but where it matters. Everyone has experienced the horror of accidentally having your phone camera on and your face down over it. Always makes me scream, like the sudden appearance of a ghoul. Nothing says "goodbye jowls" like good old missionary position.
2. Men look at women differently. Women run a scanner ray top to bottom of themselves, picking out every perceived imperfection to give them something to worry about at 3am. Whereas, for men, if you vaguely resemble the female outline from 5m away and you’re smiling, chances are you’re in.
3. Men love commitment. Look at All Blacks fans, even a losing streak doesn’t stop their loyalty.
4. Men have a wonderful ability to remember dates and other bits of important info, like what bin day it is. Which lets women concentrate on molecular biology and serial killer podcasts.
5. Men have soft curly hair under their arms. This is just a personal favourite, what can I say, I’m a pervert.
6. Men only half listen to you. Thank goodness, because you really don’t want someone tuned in to the psychotic stream of consciousness that is your own inner weirdness — bouncing from idea to idea, introducing irrelevancies and then circling back. If someone’s going to be constantly interrupting, seeking clarity, we’d never be able to get anything off our chests. Only a pedant is going to ask you later why you did blah blah when you said you were going to do blah blah, and that pedant will be a woman.
7. Men are easy ... going, they still worry, but not about the utterly stupid shit that women do.
8. Men give amazing hugs.
9. They have sperm.
10. The ones who are great dads are so great and that includes stepdads who are always there for you, like mine.
I’ve got some annual leave coming up and I’m going to go tramping. I’ll dust off my smelly Keens, grab my walking poles and head up the Hopkins Valley to revisit my bête noire: the chunky chain drag up a 5m rock bluff on the Dasler Bivvy Track. Tramping is just walking in one direction for a really long time, but that sucker always feels so much higher and more exposed than it really is.
One thing has me worried, and that’s crossing the river by myself. In fine weather it’s a chilly way to clean your stinky boots but if there’s been rain, you don’t know what you’re going to get. Every time I’ve crossed the Hopkins River I’ve been arms-linked with a heavy dude, and even so I was once washed off my feet and swept away, pack and all. Luckily, I remembered earlier instructions to roll onto my back and point my feet downstream. It scared the willies out of me though.
Solo river crossing calls for a sturdy length of branch, a staff taller than you are, creating a third leg to lean on and move through the water. I have found one and I call him Pole. I know, he sounds foreign, but he was made right here in New Zealand. You can also use Pole for household chores like fixing a saggy clothesline and getting things off a high shelf. You don’t have to ask nicely or promise sexual favours. You just poke him right into that spider’s web without so much as a by your leave. No negotiating, no need to make a sandwich.
He’s not much of a hugger.
