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06 June 2005


In the black and white world of childhood, life was easy to understand. I could always count on certain things. Fat earthworms came out after the spring rain, television had just three channels, Grandma’s currant jelly was the best and you didn’t mess with mom. Boys were boys and girls were girls and when the two got together, they wound up with babies.

Piece of cake.

And then I took Mr. Dunn’s fifth grade biology class. I learned that males and females don’t hold the monopoly on the sexuality market. Turns out there are his, hers and its. Huh? I vividly remember blinking, stunned. Mr. Dunn droned on, explaining the ins and outs of asexual reproduction in the plant kingdom.

I was just as stunned when Cindy Morrison, who knew everything in sixth grade, explained the concepts of heterosexual, homosexual and bisexuality in whispers at a slumber party. After that, I was wise to the world and knew it all.

Until last month. The local newspaper ran an article discussing the dawn of a new breed: the metrosexual. Metrosexual? I thought that was the cast from HBO’s wildly popular "Sex in the City." Perhaps it’s just people who have sex in the city, I pondered. Made sense.

But what does that make the folks who live in my small town? Hamlet-sexuals? That sounds like the latest concoction on the breakfast menu down at the local diner. Or a newly discovered Shakespearian comedy. How about farmers? Should they now be referred to as ag-sexuals? A bit too reminiscent of Mr. Dunn’s asexuals for my taste.

And what about the farmer out in Salt Creek who wears a huge sombrero to protect his face from the summer sun? An out-of-the-closet FarmMex-sexual? Sounds like a Willie Nelson concert for migrant workers.

According to, a metrosexual is actually an urban male with a strong aesthetic sense that spends a great deal of time and money on his appearance. So I guess we are now determining sexuality by our sense of fashion style.

Uh-oh. America would plunge into a mass case of the giggles if some poor slob were given the task of ‘naming’ me based upon the contents of my closet. He’d be lost in a whirl of schizophrenia; there’s the homeschooling-granola-mother-sexual in that corner, the professional-sexual on the top shelf (Ahem. No comments, please) and the pink-fuzzy-slippers-with-matching-robe-sexual hiding in the back. Poor guy.
Life was so much easier when it was just boys and girls. Leave my closet alone and pass the cake, please. Preferably with a scoop of Grandma’s current jelly on the side.