Drunk Debutante Garden Gnome

It was a crisp Thursday morning, the kind where the sun kisses your cheeks but the air still carries a hint of a chill. I awoke with a sense of purpose, an almost regal aura set about me as I slugged my way out of bed. Little did I know, today was the day I’d fully embrace and understand my true essence.

I've always known I wasn't the stereotypical "flouncy, lispy" gay guy. You know the type: they can out-dance a Broadway chorus line and their fashion sense is sharper than a chef’s knife, not that there's anything wrong with that. No, my style is a little different, more subtle, a bit morose and dark, but no less fabulous.

After a leisurely coffee, I decided it was the perfect time to tend to my new garden. But this wasn’t going to be any ordinary gardening session. Oh no. I had a sudden urge to channel my inner diva. And what better way to do that than to don my 3/4 length black silk robe from Christian Dior?

I slipped into the robe, feeling its smooth fabric against my skin, and tied it “securely” at the waist. The transformation was instant. I was no longer just me; I was a glamorous figure straight out of a vintage Hollywood film. I picked up a martini glass—gin, naturally, because dear god there are still standards to uphold—and I strutted out to the yard.

As I sauntered down the garden path, martini in hand, I felt like a drunk debutante descending a grand staircase. Every step was a performance, every sip of my martini a testament to my sophisticated taste. I could almost hear the imaginary applause of an adoring audience as I made my way around the yard.

My neighbor, bless her, peeked across the trees, eyes wide with a mix of curiosity and confusion. “Good morning!” I called out, giving a little wave with my free hand. She blinked a few times, probably wondering if she’d wandered into an alternate universe where garden attire includes designer robes and cocktails before noon. But hey, who am I to deny the world a bit of glamour?

I spent the next hour picking weeds, pruning plants , and adjusting my robe, while striking poses like I was in a photoshoot. There’s something wonderfully liberating about embracing who you are in such a theatrical manner. No longer was I bound by the expectations of what kind of gay guy I should be. I was, and forever will be, the type who enjoys the finer things in life—even if that means looking like a tipsy socialite while doing yard work.

By the time I finished, my martini was empty but my heart was full. I had discovered a new layer of my identity, one that involved elegance, a touch of drama, and an unapologetic embrace of my true self. And honestly, I think we could all use a bit more of that in our lives.

So, here’s to the martini-sipping, robe-wearing debutante in all of us. May we always find the courage to be exactly who we are, even if it means bewildering the neighbors along the way.

Cheers