A strange and unsettling phenomenon has been taking place in my life for quite some time now. I'm turning into my dad. I'm turning into the man who drove too slow, the man that didn't have a clue about much of anything (at least to a teenager), the man that looked at me in during those teen years with an expression that clearly showed a mixture of bewilderment, anger and confusion. I'm also taking on some of his physical characteristics. My hair has gone southward from my head to my back, and my once honed abs have turned into something resembling a sack of Idaho potatoes. I tuned forty-four years old in June, and suddenly I caught myself using one of my father's often used expressions.
"They say that doing squats is one of the most surefire ways for a young athlete to ruin his back," I said to my thirteen-year-old son. He had just returned home from working out with the high school football team and was giving me the rundown of the things they did during an especially grueling workout.
"Who is they?" he said, while studying his phone for who knows what. I remember my father and I having a similar conversation, only it involved me not thoroughly rinsing the soap off the dishes I was washing.
"They say that residual soap can kill a person over time," he said, while studying the few remaining suds sliding off a frying pan that I had just washed.
"Who is they?" I said, without ever making eye contact. I later surmised that the man simply didn't like the taste of soap suds.
The 'they' is of no concern to the younger party in either conversation. 'They', simply means don't do too many squats, and please rinse the frying pan thoroughly.
Apparently, I drive too slow for my two blabbering kids in the back seat. Recently the family took a vacation the the Florida Keys for a week of snorkeling, swimming and general relaxation. We flew into Fort Lauderdale airport, rented a car, and drove South to the Keys. This meant driving around the Miami metropolitan area before we could finish our journey. Now, it should be noted that driving in my hometown area and driving around Miami, is akin to fishing in a bathtub and crabbing in the Bering Sea. There are many lanes of very fast moving traffic, along with a myriad of ramps, exits, loops, etc. going in every direction. Add in one driver who's unfamiliar with his surroundings, and a tropical downpour, and poof, the birds begin to fly. No, not birds of the tropical kind, But, birds of the finger kind.
"Dad, you just got flipped off again," Sidney, our eleven-year-old daughter chirped from the comfort of the back seat. "Oh man, another guy just did it!"
"What the heck is wrong with these people down here? I mean why would they be giving me the bird?" I asked, while briefly looking at my pale, white fingers, which gripped the steering wheel tightly, and apparently didn't have any blood circulating through them.
"Oh, I don't know. Maybe it's because you just ran that guy into the median. Beats me," Ryan growled. "Dad, you're going to kill us! You're going too slow! If you don't kill us, then I think that guy beside us hanging out of the window yelling is!" the boy yelled.
"Look son, I'm in unfamiliar territory and I need to go a little slower so I don't miss our exit," I said, as I whizzed past our exit.
Kristi, my wife, was unusually quiet. I gave her a quick glace and noticed that her eyeballs seemed much larger than I had remembered. The air conditioning was blasting, but she had little rivers of sweat running down her cheeks. Or, were those tears? Either way, she looked a little out of sorts and her complexion resembled my white knuckles.
"What's wrong with you?" I inquired nervously.
"Oh nothing. I'm just worried about that lady behind us who keeps flashing her lights and laying on the horn. I think she wants to kill us."
"Dad, the streak is alive and well. You've been flipped off in Colorado, Wyoming, Montana, Idaho, Maryland, Virginia..." Ryan said, with his head phones perched atop his head.
We finally made it to our destination, and we obviously didn't get killed or kill anyone else for that matter. We had a very enjoyable week and returned home without incident.
Now, as I sit and ponder my life to this point, I can't help but wonder how I have evolved to the point that I have become my old man in a younger body. He was often given the bird while driving in unfamiliar places and could never figure out why. We kids slumped deeper into the back seat to save face. He, of course could never figure out why people treated him so harshly for driving 20 miles per hour slower than everyone else. I used to know the answer to that question, but for some reason, it escapes me now. Oh well, I'm sure my kids will remind me.
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