It’s New Year’s Day and I’m sitting at my friend’s house, enjoying the company of people who need an excuse to party for one more day. What’s unique about this extended New Year’s Party is that my friend John and I are the only two guests not over the hill. So I’m sitting there, admiring the crowd, when John’s father, a tall, strong and universally rough man sits down next to me. “Well Chris, another year has passed us by.” He tapped my knee with his hardened, dry hand that encompasses him as a person as well as any body part could. As I was about to attempt a reply to his conversation-starter, he stopped me in mid-breath.”Are you wearing perfume?”

“Well, its cologne.” He immediately stood up and walked away, making sure to shake his head profusely before leaving my sight. John’s father isn’t from the Midwest and he doesn’t solely wear red plaid flannels. He doesn’t constantly have a sunburned neck and his belt of choice doesn’t have a wider variety of tools than Batman’s. He’s simply a man who has seen masculinity diminish until the entire idea of a man’s style is more elusive than the difference between current men’s and women’s sunglasses.

John’s father grew up before New York cliché was trendy and before painted fingernails on men was a condoned fashion statement. Today, men of all ages thrive on tight jeans and tighter shirts. Due to this clothing choice, they can name more types of food diets then my two sisters. Not only do these middle-of-the-road gender males exist, they’ve slowly skewed trends into being the norm.

Shaving body parts, using numerous moisturizing lotions, using a hair stylist (not a barber) and “frosting the tips” (that was “so three years ago”). Three types of hair products are about average, right? As I describe these characteristics, a popularized term may be echoing in your mind: metrosexual. The prefix “metro” reveals the man’s urban lifestyle, while “sexual” is derived from “homosexual,” implying that although straight, the metro sexual male contains comparable aesthetic characteristics to homosexual men.

Many metrosexuals may cower behind the metro aspect, claiming New York cliché is “in,” as conveyed by the pointy shoes of countless young women. First of all, the New York cliché look has begun to emulate the feeling disco clothing had in the late ’70s, it’s just getting old. The innovative idea of a subculture of fashion no longer exists. Regardless, any metro sexual who sees these paths as coinciding is greatly mistaken. It’s not like these women are bringing combat boots and calices on hands back into style. This metrosexual appeal has stemmed further out than one may initially notice.

Those fraternity brothers that thrive on their gelled hair and tight, very expensive clothing are just another form of metrosexuals, regardless of how much muscle they pump into their bodies and how many kegs they drink in a weekend. Sure, the muscles and deep voice form a stronger façade to hide behind, but when stripped to the bones, behind the tanning-salon-soaked skin lies a rabid metrosexual.

Why am I so concerned about the way other men are dressing? To them, I say open your eyes. Every day I crawl out of bed and trek to class, usually in my sweatpants and occasionally in slippers, weather permitting. I enter class to the sweet smell of young women and the glare of the sunlight. I then realize the smell is nothing more than the Axe body spray of the three males sitting in front of me and the glare is caused not from the window but from the dripping, chemically flammable hair molded before me. Behind their Diesel shirts (or Burberry plaid shirts, if they’re the preppy type), I receive glares for wearing my Pocohontas-esque slippers with a ripped hooded sweatshirt.

Although I must regrettably admit that I do look like a slob, I am merely portraying the lesser of two evils. Once upon a time, being poorly and carelessly-dressed was not something that was frowned upon by our gender. So to my critics, I am not simply mocking the metrosexual phenomena that has taken place before us, I am pleading with the male persuasion to halt in mid shoe-purchase and change your wicked ways.

No one can deny that this appearance internally changes your behavior. Before we enter pilates classes and start yearning for commitment from our spouses, let us make a communal agreement.

We don’t have to worry about the next running fad, if Diesel’s next season shirts consist of halter tops, you do not have to wear it. Take that extra hour of sleep before class and throw on a baseball cap. Let us all please end this madness of femininity, not for me and not for John’s father, but for yourselves.