Dad of All Trades, Master of None

Domesticated, Not Demasculinized

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Posts Tagged ‘moobs’

Down with socks…yes, I really wrote about socks

Posted by doatmon on October 1, 2009

Oye Vay this is hard.

No, not the parenting thing.  As was said by Al Bundy on Modern Family last night, 95% of it is just showing up. 

The blogging thing. 

Contrary to what I like to think, I do write this blog for more than myself.  My lovely wife diligently reads every post and I think about her response.  Some REALLY lonely and bored facebook friends read most of the blogs.  Even my parents have realized the Apple IIc wasn’t coming back in vogue and got a computer that can handle the internets.


And I don’t write without pondering whether what I’m writing is worth reading.  I like to think people are interested in my point of view, my experiences and perhaps my shaved head.  Okay, probably not the latter.  My wife told me to take my own picture off my facebook profile and put one of her and my daughters up.  But at least I guess people want to read about my experiences and subsequent point of view.

 What they really don’t like to read is my bitching.  I do enough of that at home.  And in my head.  To write an entire blog bitching about my life and people IN my life just seems ridiculous.  As a result, unlike many blogs I wander across, I actually abhor writing when I’m cranky.  It doesn’t turn out well for anyone. 

The flip side of that… a SAHD on depression medication in the midst of a fortnight of gray days isn’t exactly chipper.   But something happened this past week that just forced me to write.  I imagine this is one of the experiences people visit my blog to read about.

Last week…I had to wear socks.

You have no idea how hard that was for me.  Seriously.  Since I started staying home with the kids, one of the unexpected perks was wearing absolutely anything and nobody caring. The girls don’t care.  They of the “wear whatever you want to wear to bed” nights.  If they can sleep in tutus and ski pants, why can’t daddy spend 24 hours sporting the same cargo shorts and brown shirt with a mushroom opining that he’s a “fun guy.” 


With outfits like that, who needs socks?  Or shoes even.  Sandals “for the win” as gaming geeks say.  Right, Ryan?

But last week, I was leaving the house…without the kids.  And it was under 65 degrees.  And I was wearing pants.  I just couldn’t wear sandals.  I think the shirt may have even had a collar for God’s sake. 

So I wore socks.  For the first time in months.  

I imagine this to be what a caterpillar experiences when unfurling his wings for the first time.  Except in reverse.  He is beautifully transformed and free to roam and enjoy his surroundings.  I am suffocated and inextricably restrained by a polyester-blend of Indian Ocean origin. 


As a result, I am on fashion strike.  Granted, I have never exactly read GQ to keep up on the latest fashions.  I wore Zubaz on a regular basis for God’s sake.  And defended the practice.  But since marrying Coke, she has at least shepherded me away from jean shorts and a closet full of Nirvana-induced flannel shirts. 

No longer.  I am currently wearing white, athletic socks with camo pants and tennis shoes.  And guess what?  I love it.  The people at Caribou keep asking if they can call the shelter to come pick me up, but I care not.  My role is as a father now.  Not a businessman.  Not a pillar of the community.  No stakeholder here.  More like a placeholder. 

And damnit, that job should come with perks too.  So I’m going to my HR department of one and demanding casual Mondays. And Tuesdays.  And so on.  I’m going to leave those dress shirts at the dry cleaners for another three months.  Just cause I can.  I’ll get them right before they’re donated to Goodwill.  But not a minute before.  Who even needs buttons?  Not sweat shirts.  Not drawstrings. 

Not me.

I may start wearing a bra, just so I can burn it in protest.  That and to give me a little extra support.  My moobs are a bit droopy these days. 

Three weeks without a blog and this is the best I can do.  Socks, moobs and Zubaz.

Maybe I need to rethink my self-imposed moratorium on writing pissed off.  Clearly writing “empowered” isn’t becoming.  Or interesting.


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