I have seen it in many places. I saw it growing up. I've seen it in other countries and cultures. I have even seen it in church. No place on Earth is exempt from it. "It" is the grimace. I myself, am a professional grimacer.
The grimace is unique to fathers around the world. This particular facial expression is used often to denote something uncanny or perhaps unusual, or possibly to drive home the fact that the father is purely and most completely befuddled by something or someone. My face has become a perpetual grimace. Raising children has ramped my grimace meter to the red zone.
Early in my life, I noticed that my dad almost always had his grimace on full display. My dad grimaced when my older brother and I nearly ripped the door of his car while trying to practice driving. I was seven, Jarrett was ten. The grimace was never ominous or sinister in nature, but rather, it was of incredulous thought at how someone could possibly complete an act or task in such a cavalier manner. My brother and I were masters at arousing the grimace from my father. Mothers don't generally grimace much. I suppose the tenderness of a caring mother erases the natural predisposition that us dads have to stifle our anger, but still express frustration nonetheless. Therefore, we grimace.
Recently, my wife sent our college aged son a text asking him to retrieve the garbage cans from the roadside. Easy enough. Upon our arrival home that evening, we were somewhat puzzled to discover our overflowing garbage cans sitting neatly on the garage floor. "I'm positive mom wanted you to put the cans in the garage AFTER they had been emptied!" I exclaimed with full on grimace.
"Hey dad, all the text said was to put the cans in the garage," the boy explained, looking at me as though I had three eyeballs. I could feel my face contort and change, similar to the way the Incredible Hulk turned green in stressful situation. Full on grimace mode.
I surveyed the situation carefully and deduced that he should simply take the full garbage cans to the landfill himself. I could feel my face beginning to relax, but it was too late. With each passing grimace, the lines around my eyes and forehead deepen.
Years ago, yearning for an evening of reading in bed without interruption, I showered and slowly slid into my side of our bed. I positioned the pillows against the headboard just so, and opened my book. I slid my left hand between my pillows behind my head, while holding the book with my right hand. Immediately, and without warning, I began to grimace. I turned and faced my wife who could easily surmise that there was a problem on my side of the bed. "What's the matter?" Kristi asked, surely tipped off by the expression I wore. Grimace.
"There's something wet between my pillows." I pulled my hand out from behind my head and studied my glistening fingers. "Smells like mayonnaise," I said, holding my hand beneath my nose.
"Why is there mayonnaise between my pillows?!"
Kristi began to snicker, while I went into nuclear DEFCON 4 grimace mode. Lifting the pillow, I discovered a half eaten ham sandwich, which bore the damage of my hand's recent collision with it. "Ryan was in here watching cartoons this evening, maybe he did it," she said, still snorting at my most recent grimace inducing misfortune.
I thought about her hypothesis. "Ryan was in here watching cartoons this evening? Maybe he did it? No, my money is on some random stranger who sneaked in our house, planted a half eaten ham sandwich between my pillows and left. Clever guy! Of course it was Ryan!"
After more grimacing and a complete interrogation of our ten-year-old son, we discovered that Ryan had indeed left his sandwich for "later."
Daughters are the source of many a grimace. Sidney, our daughter, has been linked to countless grimaces.
Recently, I was grilling some juicy steaks when she galloped out of the kitchen and across the sidewalk. "Where ya headed babe?" I asked, while simultaneously poking at one of my masterpieces.
"Gym."
"Be careful."
"I will," she replied from out of sight.
Suddenly, and without warning, the sound of crinkling metal filled my ears. The crinkling metal sound, sounded eerily similar to metal that a car hood would be constructed of. Specifically, my car hood.
Immediately, I raced to the driveway to see the hood of my car folded up similar to what you would expect to see after erecting a pup tent. You guessed it. Grimace face on full display! Thankfully, I was able to bend the hood back to a point where it at least resembled a car hood, although getting it to latch required some extensive shade tree engineering and copious amounts foul language.
Upon my return to the deck and the grill, the grimace which had subsided briefly, reappeared. The juicy sirloins I once salivated over had been transformed into smoldering, smoking rectangular charcoal briquettes. I felt a deep sorrow at the loss of four perfectly fine pieces of meat. I grimaced and then moped into the kitchen and made a tuna sandwich, grimacing all the way.
Wives can also be the source of a fine and miserable grimace. This past Christmas, I was delighted to open a package that contained a new pair of tan dress pants. I had been in desperate need of a new pair due to the fact that my old pair had become rather threadbare. You see, I wear what is often referred to as a "church uniform." That is to say that I wear the same old clothes to church each week. That isn't exactly accurate, as I often wear different socks and underwear.
Honestly, I could not wait to slip into my new khaki slacks and stroll down the isle as an usher in our church. However, after sitting under our tree for weeks, the pants needed a quick run under an iron. I unfolded the ironing board and plugged the iron into the socket in the laundry area of our home. Cotton setting on the iron, check. Ironing board in place, check. Can of spray starch, check. The iron reached the desired temperature as I misted the first pant leg with starch. Immediately, I commenced ironing. Houston, we have a problem. The iron stuck fast to my pants. Suddenly, my nostrils were filled with an incredible noxious aroma, complete with whispy white clouds of smoke enveloping my head. Kristi, who had been busy folding clothes nearby began her usual snicker at the sight of my misfortune. Cue the grimace.
"Good Lord," I exclaimed, coughing. "Dollar Tree starch I presume?!" I continued, while
moving toward less toxic air.
The sight of my wife crying usually requires my affection and understanding. However, the sight of her crying through laughter usually means that misfortune has befallen me in some way. "Ha, Ha, har, har," she laughted. "You used my crafting spray paint on your pants! Oh, this is one for the record books!"
Yes, the record books were in no danger of being ignored. "Spray paint?! Why the heck would you put a can of spray paint with the ironing stuff?!" I retorted, pretending to ignore her laughter. Once more, I could feel my face begin to contort and become grossly malformed. Full grimace mode.
"I spray painted a couple Christmas ornaments the other day and I guess I simply left the can sitting on top of the dryer. You should read the can first from now on," she explained, shifting the blame to me.
"Whatever."
Thankfully, I hadn't coated the pant leg with a thick layer of paint. We were able to scrub off most of the paint, but sure enough, one leg is slightly lighter than the other. Upon salvaging my new pants, I felt my grimace give way to a smile. Later that morning, I strode down the isle of our church in my newest church uniform pants, even if one leg was of a different hue and stiffness. I guess at some point, perhaps when we are empty nesters, or perhaps after I depart this world, my face could possible revert back to a place of normalcy. A place of contentment. A place where the garbage cans are always returned to their rightful spot after having been emptied. A place where ham sandwiches don't dwell behind my pillows and my car hood isn't an inverted V. A place where spray paint isn't stored next to the iron. Time will tell. Until then, I will continue to squint my eyes and shake my head to and fro, deepening the lines around my eyes and on my forehead. I will embrace the grimace and wear it proudly like the many men before me.
