My friends and I, who are cigar-smoking, unreconstructed working men, did not watch the interview with Bruce Jenner during which he talked about his wish to become a woman, or very nearly a woman.

But we talked about it, in our own way.

"He's got the face for it," one guy said.

"Nice hair," I chimed in.

"The rest of it, they can do a lot with surgery."

Jenner may not have made himself a woman, but we did, non-judgmentally sizing him up the way we do all women, because we are men.

I thought it was quite sensitive of us, considering that our little group includes a biker, a jackhammer operator and at least three guys who still say, "broads."

I gave it some thought as I drove home from the cave in which we gather, a cave outfitted with a lavish variety of domestic beer on tap.

And I'll tell ya, no way I'd become a woman.

It's just too damn hard.

In our bathroom at home are a razor, a comb and a bottle of body wash belonging to me. The body wash doubles as shampoo. I shave in the shower, and I wear my hair so short I never have to look in the mirror.

My wife, on the other hand, has niches and drawers and shelves packed with potions and goo to keep her pliable, adorable, smooth and blonde. She has a drawer, an entire drawer, filled with lipsticks — many of them ones she bought and didn't think she liked but is still considering. Her fingernails are lime green today. They were bright blue three days ago.

People look at her on the street — men, women, sizing her up. Are her pants too tight? Are her thighs too big? Is she overtly sexual? Is she not sexual enough?

People sometimes tell me I smell like the pipe I'm smoking. I wear khaki pants to work every day because they "go with" everything. She has nine bottles of perfume on her dresser. I have one bottle of cologne. Its name is "Old Spice."

She has to worry about looking "slutty" when we go out. No one has ever told me I look slutty. No one even notices that I wear khaki pants every day.

If we weren't both in the same labor union, I'd probably make more money than she does just because I'm a man.

If you light a cigarette when I get in the shower, you'll still be smoking it when I get out. My wife gets up an hour before I do solely because she has to spend a great deal of time in the bathroom, stirring her bubbling cauldron of beauty chemicals.

No one has ever called out a rude sexual comment to me on the street. In bars, I sit alone and strangers do not make attempts to "pick me up."

Stay male, Bruce. It's easier.

To find out more about Marc Munroe Dion and read features by other Creators Syndicate writers and cartoonists visit www.creators.com. Dion's latest book, a collection of his 2014 columns, "Volume I" is available for Nook and Kindle.