I did not make this one up. Gynophobia is a real, live phobia….The fear of women. Having raised two daughters through their teenage years and having lived with another such creature for most of thirty years, it is comforting to now have a name for my condition.

Scientists have conducted case study after case study in a vain attempt to find the root cause of gynophobia. Study subjects are not that easy to find. 76.18% of the men approached had to ask their mother, girlfriend or wife whether it was OK to answer the screening questions. 94.35% of those men allowed to participate could do so only if their significants first reviewed their proposed responses. Of the 23.82% of men that could answer without first obtaining a female’s blessing, approximately half were over 75 years of age. The rest were either gay, wished they were gay or were recently divorced and, as a result, really pissed off at women-folk in general.

The gynophobic condition is not hereditary. It is an acquired state. Teenage boys and unmarried young men are oftentimes found symptom free. The onset of steady girlfriend-ness seems to be the usual triggering event. Wearing a ring around the next-to-smallest finger on the left hand seems to aggravate the condition. Suddenly, two-day hunting trips, excessive beer consumption, eating more than twelve stuffed jalapenos in one sitting, public farting, scratching what needs to be scratched and watching “Blazing Saddles” brings, at a minimum, disapproving looks and in some cases, the withholding of what we guys hold most sacred…and I ain’t talking about a foot massage. I’m talking home-cooked meals. (If you were thinking that something else might be “withheld”, shame on you. The pre-marrieds among the guy population would never contemplate any pre-marital physical contact beyond possibly a firm holding of hands. We married guys, of course, get…I think I’ll not finish that.)

Before you know it, a dude afflicted with gynophobia exhibits all kind of gynophobic symptoms: We stare at the TV with a pleasant look on our face during a pairs figure skating competition. We attain the ability to walk slowly through the feminine product section of the grocery store (as opposed to running down the aisle with our eyes tightly shut). We use words like “poopy” when talking about our children. We can hear a Miley Cyrus song on the radio without making retching sounds. We no longer watch Sunday afternoon baseball double headers or Rocky II, III or IV or fishing shows. We wear socks…that match. Our favorite brown pants/green shirt combo is no more. We consume yogurt in the morning and tea with our Mexican food and salads without a covering of nacho cheese as if such actions are normal.

Studies have shown that the condition is curable. Apparently, the donation of a house, a new vehicle, a house full of furniture, retirement, savings, one testicle and the assignment of all future earnings will do the trick.

Some might call me whipped. Maybe it’s not my fault. I’m sick.