Little Dog
A bunch of us are sitting around D’s dorm room, waiting for our parents to pick us up for the long weekend. Since the room allows for a view of the front courtyard, D and I sit near the window to make sure we don’t miss our rides.
Finally, a Buick rolls up the driveway and my parents exit the car and walk towards the entrance.
“Well, my parents are here,” I say as I get up and off the desk.
“Is that your dad, Little Dog?” D always called his guy friends, Little Dog, as a term of affection.
“Yup,” I reply.
“He looks like a Big Dog.”
“He is.”
“So, what happened with you?” D scrunches up his face in a look of confusion.
Good question.
My father’s physique resembled an athlete in its prime – broad shoulders, narrow waist, and long legs. With time and the love of sitting in front of the TV, he is no longer as trim as before, but his presence can still turn a few heads.
I, on the other hand, don’t look anything like my father. I am not as tall as he is, broad as he is, or as striking as he is. And after going through the Frosh 15 (or in my case, the negative Frosh 20), I am, at 120ish pounds, almost 100 pounds lighter than he is.
Even though little boys are supposed to grow up and resemble their fathers, you can imagine the disappointment of having a son that looks like the milkman’s kid.
Physically, the only thing I have going for me is a head of hair thick and lustrous hair, a set of thighs that can crack walnuts in half, and the ability to contort my body in ways that make Cirque du Soleil gymnasts want to plot my impending death.
Where did it go wrong? Blame it on nature, nurture, a combination of both, or none because I don’t know the answer.
But, it doesn’t matter if I look like him, or not. He’s my father and I’m his little bitch… I mean boy.
Finally, a Buick rolls up the driveway and my parents exit the car and walk towards the entrance.
“Well, my parents are here,” I say as I get up and off the desk.
“Is that your dad, Little Dog?” D always called his guy friends, Little Dog, as a term of affection.
“Yup,” I reply.
“He looks like a Big Dog.”
“He is.”
“So, what happened with you?” D scrunches up his face in a look of confusion.
Good question.
My father’s physique resembled an athlete in its prime – broad shoulders, narrow waist, and long legs. With time and the love of sitting in front of the TV, he is no longer as trim as before, but his presence can still turn a few heads.
I, on the other hand, don’t look anything like my father. I am not as tall as he is, broad as he is, or as striking as he is. And after going through the Frosh 15 (or in my case, the negative Frosh 20), I am, at 120ish pounds, almost 100 pounds lighter than he is.
Even though little boys are supposed to grow up and resemble their fathers, you can imagine the disappointment of having a son that looks like the milkman’s kid.
Physically, the only thing I have going for me is a head of hair thick and lustrous hair, a set of thighs that can crack walnuts in half, and the ability to contort my body in ways that make Cirque du Soleil gymnasts want to plot my impending death.
Where did it go wrong? Blame it on nature, nurture, a combination of both, or none because I don’t know the answer.
But, it doesn’t matter if I look like him, or not. He’s my father and I’m his little bitch… I mean boy.
Authored by S at 12:00 am
7 Comments:
Sounds like you have plenty of assets. I'm glad I didn't go bald like my dad!
I got the worst physical traits of both of my parents ... and it is clear that they are both mine. Sadly, I wasn't adopted.
So I blame them. Daily.
:)
Having walnut-cracking thighs and extreme flexibility isn't necessarily a bad thing.....
Torn: Since hair loss is determined from the maternal side of the family, I'm glad I won't be bald (knock wood).
Six: I'm sure it's not that bad. We're our own worse critics... unless you're my mother.
Normlr: True. But, there are other (more desirable) things I could have.
Whoa. Certainly need more details on the contortionist abilities and the walnut-cracking thighs :)
paul
Hi there. Thanks for the comment on my blog the other day ! I just finished reading yours. You write very well.I am glad I found your blog. Keep it up .
My pop is a foot shorter than me now. My father works in a prison but my height still makes me think that I might possibly belong to some other-gibbonesque-family. You know that wierd family that hangs from the trees down the street. Don't stare dear...they must be European.
kb
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