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When I read a cover story in The New York Times last week that men who spend time with their kids lose testosterone, I couldn't help but laugh...and cry. More than that: I stood in fear.
Scientific discovery has unintended consequences (Newton's discovery of gravity took all the fun out of sitting under apple trees) and it will undoubtedly be no different here. Men are vain beasts and knowing they'll lose testosterone -- the manliest of hormones -- if they have kids will lay siege to their fragile minds. The sad upshot? They won't want kids anymore. That will have huge implications, especially in Westchester and Connecticut. Where else will humanity look for its next generation of trial lawyers and corporate flaks who doze and droll their lives away on Metro North? We have to be clear-eyed about this horrifically terrible news and take preemptive action to build an added store of testosterone. Serious action. I humbly present a grand three-point plan:
Plan 1: Local elementary schools are currently therapized bully-free zones. Enough already. We need to transform them into settings recognized in the adult world, specifically Wall Street trading floors. Learn to share? Pu-lease. Put your hand near a trader while he's eating his Reuben sandwich at lunch and you'll pull it back a bloody stump. Moreover, what child would not benefitat least in terms of testosterone levels--to learn the foreign language spoken on Wall Street, which turns curse words into a prefix for everything, beginning with "Good Morning." The Pledge of Allegiance alone will do future manhood a world of good.
Plan 2: The last bastion of throwback, nearly pure manhood in modern suburbia is the volunteer firehouse. I know: there are women volunteer firefighters these days, but the numbers are beyond thin. We'll solve the gathering testosterone shortage (known in the scientific community as gonad cooling) by sitting our kids down with the characteristically easy marks at the firehouse poker table. Testosterone surplus, here we come.
Plan 3: Rub Chappaqua resident Bill Clinton's head. Talk about getting your minimum daily requirement of testosterone.
Look: if you think suburban men are a mess now (and we resemble that accusation), just wait until we all realize that parenthood snuffs the wick of manhood. You don't want us all walking the malls glumly, sharing our sorrow at Sephora or splitting midday desserts at the local tennis club, one slice of cake, three forks.
So I'll stand as our moral steward when it comes to raising testosterone to avoid male ruin. After all, when science shifts, we need to adjust to our new reality. If not, we'd be sitting under apple trees, getting knocked in the head. Of course, that might get us really mad, which could, considering, improve this particular situation.
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Marek Fuchs is the author of "A Cold-Blooded Business," the true story of a murderer, from Westchester, who almost got away with it. His upcoming book on volunteer firefighting across America, Local Heroes, is due out in 2012. He wrote The New York Times' "County Lines" column about life in Westchester for six years and teaches non-fiction writing at Sarah Lawrence College, in Bronxville. He also serves as a volunteer firefighter. You can contact Marek through his website: www.marekfuchs.com or on Twitter: @MarekFuchs.
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