The ancient Greeks, according to Mirriam-Webster,  considered hubris a dangerous character flaw capable of provoking the wrath of the gods.

In classical Greek tragedy, hubris was often a fatal shortcoming that brought about the fall of the tragic hero.

Typically, overconfidence led the hero to attempt to overstep the boundaries of human limitations and assume a godlike status. The gods inevitably humbled the offender with a sharp reminder of his or her mortality.

I sometimes think the story of hubris is the story of my life. I am humbler, if not humbled.

When Sue Silverstein said she wanted to purchase a pink collar for Zinnia for the first months of her life, I said no, absolutely not. No working dog of mine was ever going to wear a pink collar. I didn’t do it for Rose, or for Fate, I wouldn’t do it for Zinnia.

It was an absolute statement, another dare to the Gods to humble me once more. Just two weeks later, I am humbled, I still suffer from hubris, but it’s much easier for me to get done in by my overconfidence, arrogance, and failure to grasp the boundaries of human limitations.

A lot of men suffer from hubris, just watch the news. It’s something of a parasitic disease among men, it spreads like a virus.

I wish them the same humbling I have experienced in my life; the Gods will catch up to every one of us one way or another.

Today, Zinnia has not one but two pink collars for when she comes home. My hugging and posturing have hissed right out of me, like air from a punctured tire.

Just about every smart woman I know told me I was full of shit, so there it is.

I bought one collar online last week for Zinnia when she is older. Sue Silverstein, my friend, and a teacher at Bishop Maginn, just sent me a photo of the collar she bought when Zinnia comes to the school to be socialized.

Hubris humbled once more: the dog that would never wear one pink collar now has two, and she isn’t even here yet.

I learned years ago to never tangle with strong and articulate women. I always seem to lose. Once I got that strong women were well worth listening to, rather than trying to silence or run from, my life began to come together. I fight and fuss, but more times than not, I do what I’m told. I listen (eventually), and I haven’t regretted it once.

I have plenty of ego left.

For many women, pink is a sign of power and strength, not delicacy and fragility.

I forget that Pink is so closely connected to Breast Cancer too.

“Pink has become the battle color for those fighting it and those in remission,” wrote Marty on my blog this morning. … pink doesn’t mean anything negative as in the feminism issue. It’s nothing but hope, courage, and strength.”

I like that. From now on, when I look at the pink collar, I will think of those brave women and see hope, courage, and strength, everything I would love Zinnia to possess as she begins her new life with Maria and me.

Another whackdown for hubris, another step forward for humanity. I can’t imagine there is too much of it left inside of me. I can’t imagine how much was beaten away.