Mostly rambles, few brambles
Tag Archives: gross
October 28, 2020Posted by on
Wait. Don’t get up. Dinner’s not over.
So, um, Mom and I love you both very much…
Can’t I ever just thoughtfully say “I love you” without anyone thinking I’m dying?
Yes, well, just because my once-enviable dad bod has yielded to this drooping, ill-looking mass, it doesn’t mean I still can’t live for many more less-aesthetically pleasing years.
Stop. It was enviable.
No, you’re remembering it incorrectly. I’m not dying, though that does bring me to my next point.
Don’t worry, I don’t have cherry-picked stats or sob stories about high schoolers making tragedy-prone decisions on Halloween. Scary decisions!
Sorry for the seasonal pun—I realize levity will undercut my point about life-altering consequences and ever-lurking death.
This mashed-potato-esque physique before you was once a supple, smooth pre-dad bod. I remember peer pressure, and what it was like to take my shirt off in public. Though a lot of other things are different now, I’m guessing high schools still purport that anyone getting high, or drinking, or pre-maritally sexing is a godless heathen willfully condemning themselves to a gutter-centric life. You’ve probably, also, noticed that this gutter-shaming isn’t always accurate, and perhaps you’ve even met some drug users, affable folks, who aren’t art majors, hobos, or other assorted homeless. They could be nice, regular, functioning people whose habit/hobby doesn’t define them in the slightest. Yes, drugs, alcohol, and sex all can be dangerous, but so can freeway driving. Or when I eat too much chicken in the bathtub and have myself a spell.
That said, I still think you’re both too young to be experimenting with any of these vices. I know deviant choices are tempting, so, as a Halloween gift, same curfew as always, however, until everyone is home safe, I’ll be dressed as Baby New Year.
That’s it. That’s the look of abject horror. That’s the face I’d want to see when, after several more decades of declining attractiveness, I actually tell you that I’m dying.
Everyone thought Mom threw away my Baby New Year costume after last Halloween, back when I was fifteen pounds lighter, but I secretly salvaged it from the yard waste can. I tried it on this morning, and—miraculously—I’m still able to squeeze into the sash.
Tonight I am your perfect excuse.
If you don’t want to drink, or get high, or risk teenage pregnancy—or rather know that you shouldn’t—I’m your justification tonight. Explain to your little horny fiend friends that if you’re caught by someone’s parents or the police, your dad will be fetching you dressed in only said snug sash and preworn diaper.
I’m serious like the heart attack my weight now puts me at serious risk of having. If I was bluffing, would Mom have decided against attending book club tonight? She’s terrified that if she gets a flat tire in the three-mile roundtrip that I’ll be coming to help in minimal clothes, near-maximum skin, and smelling of last year’s clippings.
Should you go to jail, or the ER, or whatever, I’ll pick you up. I won’t say much, I’ll pull my wallet out of my diaper, show my ID, and tell you that we can talk about it in the morning.
I truly love you both more than anything, and want our family to be happy and healthy for a long time, because—despite my weight gain and chicken-tub habit—I don’t plan on dying anytime soon.