BB Grey–musings

“Chancho. When you are a man, sometimes you wear stretchy pants.”

Nacho Libre

Nacho Libre drops that gem on his sidekick while getting busted in his luchador tights, and damn if it didn’t sneak-attack my brain the other day. Picture this: I’m crawling along the freeway, soul-crushing traffic turning my car into a rolling therapy session, and boom—there it is, looping like a bad TikTok remix between exit ramps and my midlife crisis vibes.

Look, I was raised by immigrant parents who handed me a man’s job description etched in stone: Be tough, provide, shut up about your feelings, and for the love of God, don’t cry unless someone’s dead. A lot of it was solid—work ethic that could shame a robot, loyalty thicker than grandma’s gravy. But some? Straight-up trash, the kind that sounded heroic in the ’80s but gets you canceled faster than a bad tweet today. We’re in an era where “man up” is basically hate speech, and vulnerability is the new black. Good riddance to the toxic bits, but let’s not throw the baby out with the bathwater—or the tights out with the trash.

Here’s the raw truth: Sometimes the heart behind those old rules is gold, even if the execution was a dumpster fire. Strip away the outdated macho BS, and you’re left with stuff worth tattooing on your forearm. But back to the pants. I’m white-knuckling the steering wheel, dodging existential potholes, and it hits me—life’s too short for stiff jeans that pinch your junk. Metaphorically speaking. You’ve gotta slip into something comfortable: Your own skin, your weird quirks, the role that fits *you*, not some Instagram influencer’s highlight reel. It might look ridiculous—like, full-on clown pants to the world—but if it lets you wrestle your demons without chafing, rock it.

And if someone catches you mid-flex? Own that shit. No more hiding in the shadows like a guilty kid with cookie crumbs. “Yeah, this is me in my emotional spandex. Deal with it.” Boom—shame’s dead on arrival. The real kicker? Those pants better stretch, brother. Don’t trade one rigid cage for another. In this wild era of fluid everything—genders, jobs, memes—give yourself room to bend without breaking. Because the test ain’t about strutting in the spotlight; it’s about not splitting at the seams when life piles on the pressure and threatens to expose your… well, vulnerabilities.

Okay, fine, the quote says “man,” but let’s slap a “human” sticker on it for the PC police. I’m a dude, so that’s how it landed in my thick skull. If that offends, sue me—or better yet, let’s evolve past needing disclaimers for every damn story. Stretchy pants equality: Available in all sizes, genders, and existential flavors.

At the end of the day, being a man in this chaotic era still means something raw and real. Stand tall for justice, even when it’s unpopular. Grind harder than your excuses. Give till it stings—time, love, that last slice of pizza. Bitch less; life’s too short for whining. Teach what you know, soak up what you don’t, and stay humble enough to admit you’re not God’s gift to wisdom. Hell, embrace meekness sometimes—yeah, I said meek, that dusty word gathering cobwebs in the Bible. It’s not weakness; it’s strength on a leash.

And for the love of all that’s holy, apologize like you mean it. Not that weaselly “Sorry you got mad” crap, but the gut-punch kind: “I fucked up, I hurt you, I overreacted, and I hate that I did.” That’s the ultimate stretchy pants flex—owning your mess without the whole outfit ripping apart. In a world screaming for men to evolve or die, that’s how you survive: Flexible, funny-looking if need be, but always authentic. Now go find your tights. The ring awaits.