The one in which I question my masculinity

I sometimes joke I'm in touch with my feminine side. Mostly because I exude what I think of as a "beta male" vibe: I'm not quite an "alpha male," but close.

What a buddy in college referred to as a "flaming heterosexual" - in the sense that I'm the straight-male equivalent of a drag queen; ain't nobody going to mistake me for gay.

You know, the sports-loving, horror-movie-watching little munkee you've all come to know and love.

But the thing is, I really do think I am at least slightly in touch with that "kinder, gentler" Ace. Not so much because I sometimes think my action-figure-loving childhood might have been even better with Barbies and a dollhouse (the better to act out my little overactive imagination scenarios that mostly featured G.I. Joes and "Star Wars" figures). But just because I think I do have a softer side underneath it all - I've been known to sniffle a bit - and JUST A BIT! - during movies, or TV shows, even the occasional commercial. That sort of thing, anyway.

Still, the other day, I think my "beta male" vibe hit a nadir.

Bad enough I'm getting addicted to a show on the O! Oxygen Network for crying out loud.

But this was a double-whammy the likes of which nearly required a hooker, or at least some porn, to restore appropriate testosterone levels.

What happened? You ask?

(Or have you given up and sat back to await my next post, which might address the Chris Benoit tragedy?)

Well, if you're still reading, here's how it went down:

Marisa has a game called "Battle of the Sexes," in which the object is to answer trivia questions that should be obvious to members of the opposite gender, while mysterious to your own.

For instance, I kept asking her questions off cards related to things like tools and sports. She kept asking me questions off cards related to things like makeup and fashion.

I kicked her ass.

And then, a couple of days later, when I played a team of her, her kid sister and a good friend, I kicked their asses, too.

Which is to say, I know a lot about things like... makeup and fashion.

Urp?

Yeah, I'm good at trivia games, generally. But for crying out loud. I can't cook, I don't wear makeup and I dress like a retired jock. And yet, I know a helluva lot about food, makeup and clothing... and other things stereotypically popular with women, but not (straight) men.

This was a somewhat mixed blessing. On the one hand, I got to gloat about winning. Twice. On the other hand, it made me start to question my relationship with my testes and their natural function.

Still, I might have laughed everything off and chalked it up to my superior trivia skills, except...

Then something else happened.

It was Marisa's turn to pick our movie-of-the-week (hey, she sat through "300," and in a theater, no less. So we've agreed to alternate picking films, even though the first two I picked were romantic comedies I thought she'd like. (See "My Big Fat Greek Wedding"for example.)

Anyway, despite that bit of give/effort to impress her, she opted to not choose a favorite movie (of hers) in a favorite genre (of mine).

She picked "Bridget Jones's Diary."

And I loved it.

Laughed my ass off.

Grinned with delight when the right guy gets the girl.

Called the "twist" before it even happened.

And... wanted to cry.

Not about the movie. About my sudden, near-complete, conversion from beta-male extraordinaire to...

What?

I don't even know what this means.

Except that I'll probably have to turn in my membership card in the Manly Men of America Society.

(OK, so I have no affiliation whatsoever with that site. It just came up on a Google search for "Manly Men of America Society," a term I made up on the spot. And I wanted a link.)

Now, anybody got a copy of "Bridget Jones - The Edge of Reason"that I can borrow?

Oh, I do hope she (SPOILER!) hangs on to that D'arcy fellow.