A few weeks ago I became eligible for membership in a group at work—the married guys. It's kind of like the dozens only the target isn't actually in the room.

Each guy is required to tell a story of his wife's insanity, unreasonability, and antagonism towards anything that he wants to do.

I am newly enrolled so I had to endure several comments about how much fun I was still having, about enjoying it now before she decides that sex is gross, about still having a say in things, about still being taken seriously.

One unmarried guy tried to complain about his girlfriend complaining about his leaving the toilet seat up in his apartment, but nothing doing. His utterance elicited a torrent of criticism mostly on the theme that at least he had his own toilet, his own apartment: freedom.

After one rotation—including the break for the stills and the owns—it was my turn. That's when I discovered it: I didn't want to play.

I'm sure I became red in the face: I know that I felt embarrassed at not being man enough to run down my wife. And take it from me she can be all of those things that my coworkers accuse their wives of being.

Truth be told, I know that lots of the guys are full of it, protesting too much.
I don't know when it became cool to play henpecked. (Maybe it's a white thing because no one in the circle had much more than a farmer's tan.) Maybe it comes from the same sense that makes us frightened of teens and children.

I've been thinking a lot lately of what it means to be a man, a husband, and eventually a father. Our honeymoon—two weeks in the Rockies—heavily influenced my thinking.

Driving through the high desert in the snow while my wife slept in the passenger seat was a vision quest of sorts. We even stopped at a reservation store (where we bought a t-shirt with the image of a war party on horse back emblazoned with the words "Department of Homeland Security: Defending the nation from terrorists since 1492").

As we were leaving, a little girl—probably just out of school for the day—was coming through the door. About 10-years-old, she looked like she could have been an extra in "Dances With Wolves."

I wondered if her father had time to think about being a man. I don't have the answer, but I think it's somewhere between John Wayne and Elton John. I just know that I love my wife enough not to run her down. Maybe it is enough; maybe it's only a start.