Ahhh…the uncensored wisdom of a father to his young, impressionable daughter. Yes, my aghast dad blurted those exact words when tucking me into bed one night. I was maybe… eight-ish??
I write about this today, because last night there was a nip in the air, the wind blew through the house a little before I closed the doors, and my toesies were cold getting into bed. For the previous ten years or so, I’d heat up my beanbag and put it at my feet – only this year I am sleeping in a waterbed and I don’t want to somehow melt through what’s holding it together? Or boil the water under the heated beanbag? I know both of these fears are completely irrational, but somehow I still avoid doing it.
Anyway, there I was typical Sunday night-ing it post-11 pm feeling wide awake in mind, exhausted in body, with thoughts of the impending Monday looming overhead: Do I REALLY have plans for what I am teaching first thing in the morning like I think I do? What will the weather be like? Should I have picked out my clothes ahead of time? Did I shave my legs in case I want to wear a skirt? Will spiders be in the clothes I’ve left on the floor? Will I remember to shake them out before putting them on? Am I prepared enough to hit snooze three times or is tomorrow only a one snooze kind of a day?
GAH! Turn the lamp back on, read a few pages to get my mind dreaming about teenagers riding dragons rather than on Monday. Still no good. Light – gotta get rid of it. Turn the clock away, unplug the tv and dvd player’s red standby. Close the doors to block window light from other rooms. Try again. Maybe a Sinutab with super duper drowsy power would be good tonight. And finally, after all that…my feet are cold.
Honest to Kelly Clarkson, I lay there for five full minutes convincing myself it would be okay to put socks on, JUST for a few minutes. I’m nearly 30, on the other side of the world, a fully functioning adult, and I am worried my dad will know I am wearing socks in bed and think I’m a retard. Seriously?
I feel the need to add that the night he had his sock outburst, I was simply crawling up onto my bed prior to taking the socks off so my feet didn’t have to be naked any longer than absolutely necessary. I’d barely got both feet off the floor before Dad’s shocked shouts of, “What are you doing?!?! Only retards wear socks to bed!!!”
Clearly, this flippant remark has had a lifelong impact. The only time I wear socks to bed is camping (justified, no?? and they somehow manage to end up crumpled in the end of the sleeping bag by morning anyway) and on dire sleepless Sunday nights on Australian water beds where my neuroses convinces me I’ll spring a leak with some warm wheat. The more I write, the more I am realizing how insane I sound. I should definitely delete this post right now. Yet…I won’t, it’s just a politically incorrect dad-daughter moment that I do love to tell. Oh, Dad. He’ll be horrified to read this I am sure. At least I’m not telling my other favourite dad story about the day he fell down the stairs.
Also, I can’t mow my lawn on Sundays. Thanks, Dad.