I definitely like to say that I’m not like my dad, who is so square he could be pass as a building. Stuck in his ways, unable to do anything new. His clothes have stayed the same, his haircut has stayed the same. He was in the marching band; I wasn’t. He had a dog as a kid; I’ve had nothing but a clowder of cats.
The world also revolves around him, as far as he’s concerned. Getting mad at pedestrians for crossing the street, flipping the bird at a driver who cuts him off, and then proceeding to put on a “I hate the world” look for the rest of the day. He also doesn’t know when to not text, sending one about his work schedule every week, sometimes in the middle of the night. It’s the same thing and I don’t really care. He’s been listening to the same music for as long as I’ve known him, the oldies station going back to when it wasn’t known as the oldies station, but something like “new wave” or “new rock”. Flipping through the stations and coming across a catchy Katy Perry or Maroon 5 song, I know it won’t stay on there long. And, flip, I’m right.
On the bright side, he loves hockey and has been going for the Red Wings ever since they were called the Dead Wings. I remember when he used to tape the games on a VCR (sad nostalgic tear), getting it programmed to automatically record the primetime game on the channel, while he was away at work. He would watch the game later, with a bowl of sherbet in his lap and usually shirtless with a hairy dad body, now enjoying having the power to speed through commercials and get to the good parts of the game. As a little kid I would sit down on the couch and observe the game, he occasionally shouting out a random swear word, yelling at the TV everytime a call didn’t go the Wings way. I didn’t have much interest in sports back then like I do now but I tried to watch and understand the meaning of the game, getting that these red suited guys skating up and down the ice and crashing into other players, trying to put a little black rock into a net, was a very special thing to my dad. He still love the Wings to this day, now going down to the Michigan Theatre to see them compete in the playoffs. 24 straight years now, every year since my birth. They don’t always win but they sure put up a fight. I’m not a big fan of hockey like him though. I love football; he only watches it occasionally.
I have realized I’ve inherited some of his self-centered attitude. I do think about myself a lot and am very private with my thoughts. We both can be quieter than a calm sea at times and go off into a corner with no one realizing we’re there. We’re both highly intelligent and have a way with crunching the numbers and strategizing, especially with board games like Clue. He’s very crafty at that game and has a religious passion for it but I’ve since caught up to him in skill after years of trying to figure the game and his sneaky strategy out (some cheating probably involved). He is a good father though who has been through some tough situations in his life, like having to have artificial hips implanted and not being able to enjoy the freedoms of running and excessive celebrations, in fear of misplacing his hip plates and possibly having to be confined to a wheelchair for the rest of his life. Which would only add to his pleasure of having people seek pity for him.
My mom, on the other hand, can be a bit of a dim lightbulb. She has a limited education and can say some derogatory things without knowing exactly what’s she saying. She is also absentminded and always forgetting something: wallet, keys, charger cord, driver’s license, library card, credit cards. I like to joke that she would forget her head if it wasn’t screwed on tightly. She not very good with vehicles either, every car she’s owned being broken down and the victim of wear and tear as well as a chronic messiness of bills, wrappers, cans, bills, bottles, crumbs, bills, candy canes, and more papers.
If there is one thing we have in common, it is probably our forgetfulness. I have left behind a couple of possessions in my lifetime and am always misplacing things like my wallet, phone, and those tiny memory cards that like to flip across the room and land in oblivion, being found a year later when things are being moved around. The charger cord extension for my Handycam was left behind in a hotel room last December, forcing me to charge it by plugging it into the computer with its short cord. I’ve gotten along nicely so far, having used the camera to take shots of full moons, the blood moon coming up in a couple days.
There are some similarities between me and my folks, such as the way we look (people are always saying my dad and I look alike) but I like to have some separation in terms of personality and style, even staying away from getting into the same jobs, just to say that I am my own unique person. I love my parents, but sometimes they can do the stupidest and most embarrassing things (please don’t pick your nose, dad, and touch the chips we share) that make me want to never totally end up like them. A good way to be, I say.
In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “I’ve Become My Parents.”
Do you ever find yourself doing something your parents used to do when you were a kid, despite the fact you hated it back then?