"My mother long since decided that I was, in her words, 'spectacular.' First, it was my needlework in the knitting class at the community center in Freesmon, Indiana. As she said, 'son, you can twist a scane of yarn with the spectacular precision of a retired policewoman.' Later, my mother would say that my score on the PSAT was, as she said, 'spectacular for your reading level.' At my current position as assistant supervisor at Haddie's Flowers in Freesmon, my mother complimented me on my 'spectacular management of the work of the florists under supervision at the store.' But then a few years ago at Thanksgiving dinner at my aunt's house my mother announced before prayer that she thought that my pecs were 'spectacular.' My father pointed out the obvious pun and then nodded in agreement. Needless to say, I blushed at my mom and dad's appreciation of the male beauty of my pecs — not just for my spectacular talent as pecs that knit well or as pecs that scored decently on the PSAT or as pecs that manage employees at the florist shop with success — but as who I am: a man's pecs. Am I spectacularly polytalented as a knitter, a test-taker, and an assistant manager? Yes. But am I also a set of spectacular pecs? Also yes. You'd be lucky to twist these nipples until they bleed. Or at least my mom would be. (My mother died of a drug overdose in 2014.)"

— Aiden J.