WARNING: If you are my dad, do not read this post. It is so not about you, and you are not going to enjoy the content. Try again next time. You've been warned.
So you thought this was going to be some sweet post about my childhood with an ode to dear old Dad? You know me better than that (if not, you will).
No, this is about my encounter yesterday morning with Mr. Mom. As in, is it hot outside, or is it him? It's twenty nine degrees out, so it must be him.
I was out walking Cotton, the Stevie Wonder Dog (he's blind, in case the reference didn't give that away), when what to my wondering eyes did appear but this gorgeous creature looking like something straight of the Brooks Brothers Winter/Adonis catalog. I thought I might be fantasizing until I realized he was pushing a stroller...and that would not be part of my daydream.
Gray sweater, jeans, loafers. I think the sun was shining a little brighter on that man than on any other part of the neighborhood. Thank you God for this early morning eye candy. Clearly, this man must be visiting because I know of nothing in my neighborhood that looks like that.
As this magical creature approached, he smiled and showed a perfect row of pearly whites. I attempted a coy smile, which I am quite certain was really me grinning like a deranged maniac and showing off my molars. Like those poor awkward faces Britney Spears always throws out. Hello, handsome.
Divine Dad looked down into the stroller (I can't say if it was a little boy or little girl--there could have been a chimp in there wearing baby clothes) and said, "See the pretty doggy?" Cue the Wonder Dog, who began one of his favorite, least charming tricks. That very moment, Cotton began scratching and kicking the ground. Spastically. Furiously. He does that to try and show he's in charge of the situation, and he does it all the freaking time. And virtually every time he does it, he kicks grass and dirt all over me, as I am standing behind him and begging him to stop. It. Now. Today was no exception, and the dew on the grass really helped it adhere to my pants, coat and shoes. Lovely.
At this point, I look down at said pants and realize they are the worst pair of sweatpants that I own. Warm, comfy and horrifically ugly. They have bleach stains on the thighs and a paint smear across the tush. (Don't judge. The people I usually encounter on morning walks during the work week all have cataracts and they think I look smashing.)
I am wearing no makeup, and I have a charming habit of my own: my skin breaks out in red blotches when I get nervous/embarrassed/angry/greeted by a male supermodel. Some people blush, I look like I am having a severe allergic reaction. Yeah, so I had that going for me. I was the lunatic lady with hives out walking a crazed little dog, with grass falling around my head like confetti in Times Square on New Year's Eve. My only hope is that the sparkle rays from his bright, shiny, white teeth ricocheted off my forehead and hit him in the eyes, making him temporarily blind.
Gorgeous guy and I'm sure future gorgeous offspring strolled on, and the Wonder Dog and I continued with our walk. I spent the rest of the route planning better clothing options and thinking of witty banter for our next encounter. Which I am sure will probably never happen. And even if it doesn't, I'll never think of being a daddy's girl quite the same way again.