More often than not you’ll hear a woman say, “Oh geez I’m turning into my mother.” Well, I find that as I’m getting older, I’m turning into my dad – in so many ridiculous ways.
When I was a kid, my dad and I spent a lot of time watching reruns of Unsolved Mysteries with Robert Stack and eating Laffy Taffy. Now I watch reruns of Unsolved Mysteries with Douglas Farina (far inferior) and curse Walgreens for not having grape Laffy Taffy ropes. We’d go camping, and he’d teach me how to build the perfect campfire – teepee never log cabin-style. Now, I school Michael on how to make a bonfire the same way.
But beyond these silly coincidences and love for true crime and cheap candy, I’m realizing we’re more alike than I might have thought. We’re both on the quiet side, logic-base thinkers, great at telling bad jokes and lame stories. And then it goes deeper. I find myself beating a dead horse to death in conversation or laughing in that weird way or developing the dreaded “Kaminski twang.” And that’s when I’m realizing that I’m turning into my father, which is fine by me (so long as I don’t need my hip replaced next week too).