I’ve mentioned, at length before, that I love men.  I think they’re adorable creatures, especially the ones who are comfortable in their skin.  I like men who can be tender and soft, funny and uproarious, sober and serious.  I like a man not so full of himself that he can’t play restaurant with a toddler or hold my pink purse when I’m digging through my suitcase looking for something at the airport.

Give me a man so secure in his masculinity that he doesn’t have to wear it like a sheriff’s badge to keep me guessing at his motives.  Or to keep me in line.

I’ve been blessed with good men in my life.  A father who didn’t hesitate to shed his Marine Corps officer’s uniform to crawl around on the floor with kids, an ex-husband who found the funny in just about everything, and a boyfriend who is simultaneously strong and tender. 

There are good men everywhere. 

Many men are feeling as if they are being attacked.  As if masculinity is being attacked.  It’s not.  It’s toxic patriarchy that women are complaining about.  The same brand of masculinity that tells men they can’t cry, can’t be tender, can’t show a gentle side.  This is what we are against.  We are wildly in love with men who can escape that trap and just be themselves.