I know, I know: Everyone has their quirks—no man is a hero in his Search history—but even as our concept of masculinity becomes ever more expansive and elastic, each of these traits conspires to disqualify me, in an almost perfect-storm way, from the league of mostly normal men. I mean, I might as well be Richard Simmons here.
Not that I particularly care. One of the great luxuries of getting older is caring less and less what others think of you, and I stopped pretending to give a shit about March Madness and Vegas (Vegas!) when I turned thirty. Lately, though, I've been watching my three-year-old start to show signs of who he might become, and with every new development, with each fresh piece of evidence of a personality, I've been wondering about whether this is normal, and whether that's not normal, and what all of it might mean for him in the world outside our living room. And so here I am, back to thinking about normality after years of swearing I'd never think twice about what's normal again, only now the stakes are higher: I'm responsible for molding a small human into a man. And if that weren't tricky enough, after speaking with a dozen authorities on the subject, I've found that nobody can really tell me what normal means, anyway, even though everyone agrees it's completely misunderstood as a concept and totally overrated as a virtue.
I know, I know: Everyone has their quirks—no man is a hero in his Search history—but even as our concept of masculinity becomes ever more expansive and elastic, each of these traits conspires to disqualify me, in an almost perfect-storm way, from the league of mostly normal men. I mean, I might as well be Richard Simmons here.Not that I particularly care. One of the great luxuries of getting older is caring less and less what others think of you, and I stopped pretending to give a shit about March Madness and Vegas (Vegas!) when I turned thirty. Lately, though, I've been watching my three-year-old start to show signs of who he might become, and with every new development, with each fresh piece of evidence of a personality, I've been wondering about whether this is normal, and whether that's not normal, and what all of it might mean for him in the world outside our living room. And so here I am, back to thinking about normality after years of swearing I'd never think twice about what's normal again, only now the stakes are higher: I'm responsible for molding a small human into a man. And if that weren't tricky enough, after speaking with a dozen authorities on the subject, I've found that nobody can really tell me what normal means, anyway, even though everyone agrees it's completely misunderstood as a concept and totally overrated as a virtue.
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