Wednesday, May 31, 2006

My Dad Loves His Underwear


My dad loves his underwear.

I’m getting ready to go to Greece. This trip is different. It’s for pure pleasure. I don’t have to take a suit, or lipstick. My cell phone won’t work there and I won’t have to wear a badge or sign in at the registration desk of the corner café just to order a snack. I’ll be chillin’ on the beach, drinking with friends and writing my butt off.

The preparation for this trip has been intense. I’ve done it all myself and between cashing in airline miles, surfing the web and negotiating with Greek travel agents I’ve put together a pretty nice trip. Although Greece is not Italy, this process has brought back flashes of my trip to Italy in the summer of 2002. These images are not simply pleasant flashes, they’re flash backs. Smatterings of images brought on by Post Traumatic Stress Disorder resulting in the time I spent traveling though Italy with my father. A man who prefers to spend most of his waking hours in nothing more than his tighty-whities; which are neither tight, nor are they white. Being in the family travel trenches was hard, but I believe I’ve come out of it a better woman.

I’d traveled with my father before. Only, it wasn’t just me and Dad. My mom and my brother were there as a buffer and like infantry men, we had each other’s back. Spring after spring we made our way to Mexico for surf trips. We camped a lot and made day trips into San Francisco. The difference lies in the fact that I was a child. Our Italy trip was the first time we’d traveled together since adulthood took hold, and it was just me and dad, father and daughter, and the parent child roles had clearly started to reverse.

We went to Italy in summer. So it was hot. Not good conditions for warding off the instant-underwear move that my father has pioneered. Every time we checked into or returned to our hotel this was the scene:

We’d swerve into our parking spot. Step out of the car and make some low tone comments about what a great day it was. We made our way up the hotel stairs and down the hall that lead to our room. Inevitably I would be doing the pee-pee squeeze because I’d had a big lunch and too much pop. As soon as the door was open I’d push forward into the room, rush into the bathroom and by the time I got out, poof! the clothes my dad had been wearing had exploded off his body and were scattered everywhere. He’d be lying on his bed, face up with is ankles crossed, his face hidden behind a magazine and the only article of clothing remaining on his body were his not-so-tight and not-so-white underwear. I’d roll my eyes expecting the next move. And it would always come: “Shit! Where’s my passport? Louise!” He’d screetch like I’d lost his passport. Then he’d frantically rip through his bag, toiletries, and linens making a huge mess and covering any evidence of organization I had instituted in the beginning of the day.

Moments later he’d be holding his passport in his hand, panting from the adrenaline and smiling, pleased with the notion that he’d just saved us from having to find an American Consulate, wait in line all night just to be asked to come back tomorrow. Good job dad! All this in his loose, flaccid, man panties. No sense of shame, modesty or respect for the witness.

Over and over again this scene played itself through. Day after day. You’d think it was something someone could get used to. Think again. Soon this scene looked like something closer to a tantrum than a hunt for official documents. But, instead of diapers they were Jockeys. And I was expected to be the patient mother who’s there to support the situation.

My dad does whatever he wants, whenever he wants to do it. No matter who’s watching or who it will impact. The baby Jesus isn’t even safe. Example: Every city in Italy has a Duomo, a church that’s clearly the spiritual center of the community. You don’t find churches in Italy that are rented steel buildings in the back of a parking lot. There are no modern religious structures. The thought of converting a Wal-Mart into a place of worship is an act of blasphemy. In the US, such redevelopment is considered an act of commercial genius. Anyway, we spent a lot of time in churches in Tuscany and Umbria. These places are quiet, spiritual caverns that give you the sense that God could crush you in an instant if he didn’t like what you were wearing. Or, if you chose to put four Euro in the donation box instead of five. Sinners beware. These places give you the feeling that no sin is too small for the heavens to open up and release an omnipotent smack-down on your feeble ass.

My father didn’t care. While worshipers, tourists, historians and school children endured the audio tour of some of the most ornate religious architecture ever built by man, my father, the moment his feet started to ache, sat down in the middle of the tile floor of the Duomo di Santa Maria di il vino Espiritu Santu Magdaleda. Horrified, I tried to scoop him up by the arm pits. “Get up!” I whisper-yelled. “Dad! If you’re tired, go out side. There are people praying. Get UP!”

“No. My feet hurt.” And he sat there.

I let go. With my head bowed in reverence I scurried away and tried not to look related to him. Minutes later I looked over my shoulder to see him still sitting cross-legged, reading the tour book and periodically leaning to one side or another in his attempt to squeeze one out. When I was ready to go I just passed him and whispered with a coordinated eye-roll “Come on. Let’s go.” I was just glad that he hadn’t stripped down to his underwear and lost his passport.

This behavior has endured throughout the years. And although I am impatient and embarrassed by it, I am also strangely jealous of his lack of inhibition. His ability to do as he pleases without any thought or hesitation has wisdom in it. He does what he likes and the world doesn’t stop. He’s not cast out of his social network. He usually gets what he wants and he has fun while he’s doing it. This is not to say it’s easy being him. It’s not. Nor is it easy being his daughter. But, what I’ve learned from him is invaluable. I’ve learned that you don’t always have to wear clean underwear and that you can sit on the floor of a Duomo and fart while you read and God won’t strike you down. Consider the possibilities.

1 Comments:

At 3:36 PM, Blogger Dia Bondi said...

Yes. This response rocks.
This post was my sixth and it's the post that I got the most responses about. I send this blog out to my dist. list and most of the time people respond via email. What I've heard most are responses about the readers' fathers. He was like this...or like that...all great stories, some a little heartbreaking in a subtle and accidental way. We love our dads, and we hate our dads and either way we can't get away from what an impact they have on our lives, our views and our feelings. Dads are powerful.

 

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