He’s not like that. Not like the punitive, domineering police officer I’ve always thought. He doesn’t even wear a uniform. Doesn’t even own one, actually.
So what does he wear? I can tell you one thing: he dresses up for every single theme night and that’s for certain. He parties hard and he is all about unity. Togetherness. He actually likes fun. Sometimes he’s wearing a party hat with cake and icing littered in his beard. Sometimes he’s in a swim suit, love handles proudly displayed. He’s cannon-balling his way into the pool, seeing if he can splash the fuddy-duddies sitting by the side.
Sometimes its a fringe jacket. Paisley on his shirt. Boot cuts and a real Stetson. He knows every line dance. And he gestures to me… “jump on in, my son!” But I’m usually too cool to add my stomping feet to the riot of joy. Too cool or too scared.
I’ve seen him running naked through a field when it was rainy out. He giggles much more than I am prone to giggle. And his laugh is a song. My favorite song. His galumph shows no trace of shame. And no pride.
He just… is.
He is so comfortable with being. So comfortable that he’s not even thinking about whether or not he’s being authentic. He doesn’t worry about that like I do. He does what he is and he doesn’t do what he isn’t