Yesterday, I finally got my dad to watch True Blood. After over a year of telling him he should.
It was a lot easier than I really anticipated.
All I had to do was turn it on.
I read my book during a couple of the episodes, but it was nice to just sit there. Not worry about anything. Just be.
Because yesterday was Father’s Day and I got to relax and have a pleasant evening with my father last night, I feel compelled to mention that I have pretty much the best dad ever.
Like, so good kids with poor male role models gravitate toward him.
It’s not that he’s without fault. My dad is far from perfect. But he is probably the best man I have ever known in my entire life.
My track record may make it seem as if the males I have known might be somewhat questionable in the awesome manliness department, but I have known some very decent men. Friends’ dads, teachers, bosses, bus drivers; you know, the usual. But not one of them can ever compare to my dad.
He taught me to wrestle—actually, he taught me it was okay to beat up the little boys in my elementary school, but, you know, same difference. He taught me to appreciate more in life by having a sick and twisted sense of humor. He sang me to sleep when I was little. Actually, he’d probably still try now. He accepts that I swear to him (not at him) and cry for no reason.
I can’t recall ever having seen him cry. Not even when my grandfather passed away last year. He’s a man. Men don’t cry! They drink tequila. Sometimes.
My father will always be the standard by which I measure men I date. I know no one will ever measure up, but maybe one day someone will get close.
With my luck, he would find me completely unattractive. But maybe I can brainwash him into somehow finding me fascinating.
Unlikely, I know. But I can fantasize all I want.
He is the perfect king in every little girls’ princess fantasy.
Sometimes I am lucky enough to feel like I deserved to be his little princess.
Every day I am blessed to be his daughter.
