I've been challenged by Stank troll Tony to name something about men that I admire. It's my pleasure to serve.
You know the guy. He's overweight, blotchy, untoned, untanned. He's in his driveway, shirtless, with his paunch hanging over his jeans. He's hosing off his car. He sees a passing friend, or maybe even you driving by, and he waves, completely without self-consciousness. Hell, he puffs out his chest with pride. I love this guy. I don't love looking at him—I, myself, wear a shirt for a reason—but I admire his self-image. This is mental health.
Contrast that, then, with any given woman having a meltdown in front of the bathroom mirror. She's got the most acute vision in the human kingdom, and it's spotted a flaw that's going to ruin her whole day. You try mightily to see the flaw, but you fail, and she thinks you must be lying, as the flaw could be neither more ghastly nor more obvious. I do not admire this psychosis. Give me the hose guy.