Fabulous

My daughters are three and two. They like My Little Pony and Sophia the First and the Olivia books. They each have a baby doll, and they have each named their doll ‘Baby.’ They love puzzles and coloring and building towers with their blocks.

Recently, they have discovered nail polish, and they have added it to the growing list of things that they love. My wife and I have agreed to allow them to have nail polish on their toenails, but not yet on their fingernails.

This past weekend, the four of us had a nail polish party. We currently own four different colors of nail polish: orange, pink, blue, and purple sparkles. The girls decided together that my toenails should be a nice mix of all four colors, and I readily agreed. My toenails are now a walking pride flag, and though they look ridiculous, I am content knowing that I am fabulous…

Earlier today, while undressing in the locker room of the gym, an older gentleman happened to catch a glimpse of my deviant toenails. He stared for a moment, perhaps confused by the irregularity of it all, but then turned away without a word. I continued about my business, wondering if he would work up the nerve to share his disappointment with me.

Fortunately, it took him less than a minute to decide that he had an obligation to himself, to the world, and to basic human decency to tell me that my toenails bothered him.

“You know,” he said in his gravelly voice. “In my day, real men didn’t wear make-up.”

No, I thought to myself. In your day, segregation was the law of the land, sexual harassment wasn’t a crime but homosexuality was, there were two world wars that killed over sixty million people, and half the world had been colonized and brutalized by western Europe and America.

But real men didn’t wear make-up.

Forgive me if I refuse to be lectured about morality and decency by someone of your generation.

“Too bad,” I said with a smile. “It’s good to be fabulous…”