Peddies

Real men do certain things, and don’t do certain things.

Real men watch sports. Real men don’t watch ballet.

Real men drill. Real men don’t recite poetry.

Real men grunt. Real men don’t cry.

Real men play with the kids. Real men don’t care for the kids.

I’m not a real man.

Never have been. I cry during movies. I raise my kids with the wife. I suck at drilling, and my sense of direction is terrible.

Mostly, I dig pedicures. Oh, not all the time. Hell, not even regularly. But once or twice a year, the wife breaks out a surprise trip to the nail salon—and takes me along. Truth is, I love it. If you’re a guy, and you’ve never gotten a pedicure, well, you’re missing out. To have your feet scrubbed and polished and soothed … in a word, awesome. Seriously, seriously awesome. It’s expensive, so we rarely go. But because my birthday just passed, the wife took me and some friends to a nail salon in Buffalo. Great, as always.

That said, I’ll mention that I, ahem, get my nails painted. Just on my feet, because I think it’s sorta funky and cool … and who looks at my feet, anyhow? Plus, why can’t men have their nails colored? Being 100 percent serious—why not? Where’s it written?

Usually, to irk/amuse the wife, I get alternating hooker colors. Neon pink and neon green. Stuff like that. This time, in honor of Mike Piazza, I went with simple black.

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