Want Some Cheese With That Whine?

There may be nothing more tragic than a joyless, whining man. Each time I think of such a character, the following personas come to mind: literature’s Silas Marner, the protagonist in George Eliot’s novel of the same title, a recluse who exists only for work and his precious hoard of money; or Ebenezer Scrooge, the coldhearted, tight-fisted, selfish protagonist of Charles Dicken’s A Christmas Carol; or Diogenes, Greek mythology’s ascetic who gave up on the world, withdrew from the company of men to live a life of seclusion and hardship, and was said to have gone out with a lantern in hand to search of an honest man.

Unlike women, who can readily express themselves because, as children, they were socialized to do so, men generally keep their thoughts and emotions private and buried. They may have real and weighty grudges against other people and the world at large but because of their innate ability to compartmentalize, these are harbored in the deepest recesses of their interior lives and are hardly spoken of candidly or at random. They are only let out at the most opportune time, if at all. This is the reason they cringe when women drop the line, “We need to talk” — because it makes men feel cornered. Hence the New Age popular saying, “Men are emotionally constipated,” a sentiment obviously coined by a woman.

Then there are the men who whine. They don’t keep it inside, but let it leak out in joyless dribbles. Don’t get me wrong: my perception of men has always been favorable. I find them to be good company, period. While women, as soon as they congregate, tend to lapse into whining about their relationships and lives, men discuss interesting stuff like politics and sports, erupting compulsively into jokes and ribbing each other to lighten the mood. Their togetherness always seems jovial and effortless and this is why, when I chanced upon three different men who seemed to have a grudge against humanity and the entire universe — on three separate occasions within one week — I thought that the Big Guy in heaven was definitely sending me a message. At first I figured, shucks, this was probably my penance for having said some unflattering things about men in this column. But then again, no: there is no excuse for men publicly ranting and raving about random things. It simply isn’t… manly.

A year ago, when I finally settled quite nicely into middle age, I made a conscious decision to edit all the people with negative energy out of my life: the grumpy ones, the jealous ones, the intrigue and gossip fiends, the pessimists, the control freaks, the judgmental ones — those with a grudge against the world. I figured, my life is half over and I should live the rest of it in as much harmony as I could muster. But then, last week, like a magnet, I attracted three of the most negative people you could imagine into my force field. Just my luck! (Or was it karma?)

While doing my daily errands I bumped into three male friends — casual acquaintances whom I had never spoken with at any great length. One (let’s call him Mr. X) I saw while grocery shopping; the other, Mr. Y, let us say, was at a restaurant; and the third, Mr. Z, I bumped into while getting a haircut.

Mr. X spotted me first at the meat counter and courteously walked over to say hello. And as we waited for the butcher to gather our preferred cuts of beef and pork, he chatted me up. It wasn’t so bad in the beginning; he started off with the McCain/Obama US presidential race and then segued into lambasting Cindy McCain, then Hillary Clinton, then Madonna, and then several ladies we mutually knew. He talked about how one of them had gained too much weight and how she had started piling on too much makeup. Then he spoke of another lady friend who had decided to transfer her child to another school and how he thought the choice was disastrous and how incapable she was as a mother. And then he stepped in it: he proceeded to speak ill of a common male friend whom I just happen to be very fond of. He spewed out a litany of how he thought this friend of mine was too much into himself and how he was prone to grandstanding to compensate for his deficiency in the looks department. I so wanted to hand over my compact mirror to him so he could take a good look at himself and finally realize that “he ain’t no Brad Pitt” himself. How dare this dude, I seethed. How catty and downright barbaric he is to be talking ill of women this way and to another woman at that!

A couple of days later, I encountered Mr. Y at the vestibule of a restaurant, just as we were about to step out. He was dapper enough to hold the door open for me, even going as far as offering to stay until my car arrived as his vehicle had promptly pulled up. How gallant, I thought. But that thought was immediately banished when he began whining about the economy and started laying blame on specific individuals for the worldwide financial crisis. A discussion is one thing — a healthy exchange of ideas about specific issues — but whining and bitching is something else altogether. It is a juvenile temper tantrum, a mouthing off of one’s desperation and hopelessness — something pointless and destructive. It wasn’t a mild expression of concern; it was clearly some form of displaced anger. Mr. Y has serious problems and we didn’t know each other well enough for him to be taking such liberties, unleashing a rant in my personal space. It was one of the longest 15 minutes of my life and there was nothing I wanted more than to tell him to get a grip on himself and lighten up, since he still had his brand-new Range Rover and his new beach house in Batangas.

Then there was Mr. Z paying at the cashier when I walked into the hair salon. After he had paid, he pulled up a stool and sat alongside me as I waited for the hairdresser. His opening was predictable enough — he spoke of the weather, relentless rains alternating with overwhelming humidity. Then, out of the blue, he spoke of this 60-year-old woman whom we both knew and who runs a shop that we both patronize. He enumerated what he claimed were her personality flaws and then got down and dirty and personal by attributing these to her unhappy life, her unsatisfying relationships, and her looks. He then proceeded to talk about a dozen other acquaintances, men this time, in a similar vein — unflattering and accusatory. Mr. Z obviously is a very unhappy man. Everything he said about all the people he judged and criticized was exactly what I thought his problem to be.

Where was the joy in those three men, that quality which I find to be characteristic of their gender? The light-heartedness, the optimism, the sense of humor, the positive world view, the regal sense of fairness, the fighting spirit all ablaze, and the dislike for pedestrian gossip? Where was all that?

I don’t know why I didn’t walk out on them in a dramatic huff, heels smoking, just like in the Roadrunner cartoons, or why I didn’t tell them straight off about their unbecoming behavior, how they were giving men a bad name just by being the boors that they were, and how they were definitely going to be material for my next column. I could kick myself for not doing any of these — for simply standing there listening, and allowing them to make fools of themselves. Yes, my toes curled inside my shoes, smoke puffed out of my nostrils, and images of gruesome murder flashed in my mind, but all I did was stand there in the name of civility and good manners.

Yes, these are difficult times, but there is much to be grateful for. What else do we have to turn to if not good company? What else will sustain us if not our good humor and spirits? Discontent is perfectly fine, if it spawns action for reform and change; whining is not.