Sword fights or sushi?

There were no choices, no tricks, no wrong turns. Life is mostly about imitation, and we as a gender were the best impersonators of all.

So how to explain this recent monkey wrench in the smooth-running machinery of manhood, assuming that any of us could even identify a wrench anymore?

I talk, of course, of what some are describing as the metrosexual revolution: men as sushi-eating fashion-plates in slimming flat-front pants striving to get in touch with their feminine side, preferably in time for yoga class.

That's fine. I think I can do that. I own a three-button suit. There's a Kiehl's on Newbury Street. I like white chocolate.

But no sooner do I start greeting my male friends with warm hugs, than up pops Russell Crowe in ``Master and Commander'' as what may be the most masculine character in the history of the motion picture industry. He's on the high seas, thousands of miles from the nearest haberdashery, trading cannon fire with a ship just a few yards from his. As if that's not enough, then he wins a bunch of sword fights.

Add to Crowe Tom Cruise in ``The Last Samurai,'' another testosterone-laden hit. Swords are most definitely in style, as is flagrant courage. The whole thing almost makes me want to put my new Williams-Sonoma crÁeme brÂulee torch right back in the box.

But not so fast, because there's ``Queer Eye for the Straight Guy'' dominating the small screen. And one of the top-selling books on Amazon.com these days is ``The Metrosexual Guide to Style: A Handbook for the Modern Man,'' in which the author says, ``A bulging wallet will only produce lumps in all the wrong places.'' And here I always thought a bulging wallet was, well, a sign of prosperity.

Then a woman at a dinner party - do I bring a six of Bud or some crusty bread with a nice Taleggio cheese; I brought the latter - announces that what she wants is a man ``just gay enough,'' while the hostess warns, ``It's a very fine line.''

That's just great, a huge help. So, masculine or feminine? Crowe or queer? Hand lotion or hand trucks?

Believe me, this is a nagging conflict in men everywhere, and to prove it I asked a few friends what's the most masculine thing they've done lately. The consensus: They've turned feminine, but by default as much as design, and they're not sure whether to be happy about it.

Stephen in Cohasset asked: ``You mean, like smoke cigars? Play poker? Chew tobacco? Build a cabinet?''

Exactly.

``Nothing like that. Does anything my wife did count?''

Mitch in Waban says he raked his own leaves, but I don't really believe him, what with the risk of calluses and all. Richard in Watertown asked me to define masculine.

So there I was Sunday afternoon, stuck in a snowpile in a back alley, when a carpenter driving a pickup truck named after a large, horned animal happened by with a set of chains and pulled me free. Let me repeat that: He had a set of chains.

Who carries chains? If I ever tried towing a car with a chain, I'd have the bumper on the ground in about two seconds and then would end up pleading with the woman on the other end of the cellphone that I didn't mean to let my AAA membership expire.

Anyway, Jack, the carpenter, was arguably the most masculine man I've ever met, and he seemed plagued by not a whit of doubt about it. Oh, to be him. To have chains.

But he's the exception these days. In ``Samurai,'' the slogan goes, ``In the heart of one man lies the soul of a warrior.''

As for the rest of us? Almost, but it's ``worrier,'' not ``warrior.'' Hopefully it's nothing that a good spin class can't resolve.

Brian McGrory is a Globe columnist. He can be reached at mcgrory@globe.com.