Superdad, Representative of the League of Responsible Husbands, the Man’s Man, and all-around Encompasser of Smoothness. A lot of fathers strive for the full package. However, there would be no such luck for this guy. Not that weekend anyway. It’s those moments you look back on as a man and cringe. OK, two moments. For now though, I’m blaming the sunglasses and will have them tested accordingly.
It was a beautiful Saturday. My wife had taken part in a four mile run that morning. I had lone dictatorship of our children and offered to meet her for a picnic after her race. Three kids, dressed, lunches packed…Mr. Together. I had even gotten us to the park fifteen minutes early.
As I got out of the car, I noticed a group of women talking nearby. They waved politely as they witnessed Superdad get kids “A” and “B” out of the car and swiftly set up the running stroller. All this mind you, while baby was still happily giggling in her car seat.
It was at that point that I noticed the flat tires on the stroller. With fists on hips, I raised my face towards the noon sun and laughed heartily out loud. Superman may have needed a phone booth, but not this guy. After all, Superdad had remembered to bring the electric air pump. Your flat tires were no match for my superior powers of preparedness!
What I hadn’t accounted for though, was the thundering racket that the pump made when turned on. So obnoxious, in fact, that it terrified baby. Laughter instantly turned to ear-piercing scream. A scream that clearly echoed through the same crowded parking lot in which restless kids “A” and “B” were now running wildly amok.
Then, my cell phone rang.
As I stood to grab the phone and scold my scampering brood, I proceeded to smash the nosepiece of my sunglasses into the handbrake on the stroller. Pain, as well as many of the decorative words that I had learned in various locker rooms, swam uncontrollably downstream from throbbing nose to unfiltered mouth. Squinting in agony, I immediately barked at my darling offspring like the crotchety old man telling the neighborhood kids to get off his lawn. Missing were my shillelagh and weathered fedora.
As my eyesight returned, I immediately looked around for potential witnesses. That same group of women had stopped talking and just stared. Sunglasses skewed ninety degrees in the wrong direction, feral children galloping about, baby screaming…all with blood and tears trickling from my swollen beak. Add to that the intolerable sound of that pump still churning away in the background, setting the appropriate “Symphony of Pandemonium” ambiance.
Smoothness personified in just under ten seconds.
Cringe event number two took place twenty-four hours later. We took the kids hiking for the day in the mountains. About halfway up the ascent, I took note of the shear drop off from the sides of the trail. Having my nine month old daughter strapped in a carrier, I decided that use of a walking stick was probably in our best interest. At this point, I wasn’t particularly interested in being the world’s first father-infant daughter BASE jumping tandem.
At the top, we stopped for a break. I propped my stick against a wall and bent down to unbuckle the baby carrier. Really, a skilled marksman couldn’t have sighted it any better. The stick slid off of the wall and right into the nosepiece of my sunglasses. I’m pretty sure that I heard a twenty-strong chorus of groans to accompany the event. Ego and nose still painfully bruised from the day before, I mumbled through the remainder of my offensive vocabulary before ripping the sunglasses from my bottom lip. The only thing that kept me from heaving them deep into the wilderness below was the lecture that I would have received from my four year old standing nearby. “You littered. You’re going to jail!”
The sunglasses have now been sent to the Institute for the Modishly-Impaired. I anticipate the test results will confirm my theory that the nosepiece is made from the exact same magnetic material as is found in my toes. I’ve been known to smash toes in the same weekend, even the same day. However, this was a first for the nose. It had to be the sunglasses.
So, where does this leave me and my shades? Hipness enabler or danger magnet? GQ advertisement or Plastic Surgery Weekly?
For now, I’ve opted to keep the sunglasses. They may be a reprehensible maiming hazard, but they’re still functional. This, even after the skin and dried blood were washed from them. Public humiliation may have dimmed those brief flickers of “smoothness”, but I’ll continue to strive for that full package status. For now, no phone booths required.
Although a part of me is beginning to wonder if these types of scenarios are what led Superman to totally disregard the trendy eyewear fad.
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