What I Want To Be When I Grow Up

Many years ago I had a class assignment where I had to describe what I wanted to be when I grew up.  This was of course during those early years when my teacher was still telling me that I could be whatever I wanted to be.  I think Fred Savage called those the Wonder Years.  As I look back on them now I call them The Naïve Years.

Anyway, I specifically remember writing my report (which included a picture . . . and not a good one . . . Whipple men are not artists . . . actually we’re not artists, we’re not mathematicians, we can’t spell, we’re pretty slow, we worry a lot, and we drive like old ladies) and listing lawyer as my desired future occupation.  And in fact I had chosen lawyer because my father was a lawyer, and I wanted to go to work with him, and have an office right next to his (I remember my picture showed me and my dad at work together with offices right next to one another).

Now I was like 10 when I did this assignment so I honestly had no idea what a lawyer did.  All I knew is that my dad got up every day, shaved and showered, put on a coat and tie, grabbed the paper, and went to catch the train.  He got home about 10 hours later typically mumbling about how awful his day was, but frankly he mumbled about how awful a lot of things were back then . . . remember Whipple men worry, so he was constantly worried about something, and as a result was mumbling about how awful it was . . . you should have heard him mumble about how awful my hitting was in little league baseball.  Wow.

But it looked cool.  It looked important.  It looked like my old man was making a real contribution to society.  I mean how could he not be, right?  Anyone who gets up every morning, and shaves and showers and puts on a coat and tie, and rides a train and sits in an office for like 10 hours HAS GOT TO BE DOING SOMETHING WORTHWHILE.  Right?  Hell the guy smoked a pipe on Sunday’s as he sat in our den paying bills (and talk about hearing him mumble to himself).  Count me in. Sign me up.  I want to be like my dad.

And now fast forward about 30 years . . . .

I fear I have grown up to be even less of a man than I thought I would be.  I don’t go to an office.  I don’t wear a suit.  I don’t smoke a pipe.  I’ve never seen the philharmonic (and truthfully I don’t really know what the “philharmonic” is), and I don’t wear pajamas.  And worse yet . . . I think my 13-year old son is getting a firsthand look at this.

That’s the problem with summer break.  He’s here.  He’s with me.  All the time.  He sees what I do day in and day out.  Listen, my dad had plenty of issues.  I’ve taken a few shots at him in this blog . . . which I fear he has found via Google, but issues or not, what he did for a living, and the way he conducted himself around the house seemed cool, and seemed important, and seemed like it mattered.  When my dad walked around the house I remember thinking to myself “This guy has it going on.”  He knows his shit.

My 13-year old son had to rescue me three weeks ago when I got stuck in a wetsuit while trying it on in my bathroom.  Yeah.  That happened.  I ordered a wetsuit from some on-line triathlon store, and when it arrived I went to try it on.  Put on a Speedo, lubed up in Body Glide, put on the white linen gloves that came with the wetsuit (so that your nails don’t puncture the neoprene material), and worked the suit all the way up to my forearms before realizing that it wasn’t  going to go any higher.  This $220 wetsuit was going back.  Unfortunately in the process of getting it on I had worked up a pretty impressive sweat, and that sweat was now mixing with this Body Glide stuff, which I may have been a little overzealous with, to create a glue like substance.  All I can say is that I really did my best to get it off before finally calling for help.  When my 13-year old son found me I was on the floor of my bathroom wearing white gloves, a bright blue Speedo, and half of a wetsuit.  It took the two of us another five minutes to get the rest of it off.  When I was finally free the only thing my son said was “Maybe you should take a shower, Dad.”

I never helped my dad out of a wetsuit.  I watched him knot a tie a few times.  I watched him string a tennis racket once.  But I never came to his rescue.  What I would I rescue him from?  He was the dad!  And if it were just this one wetsuit incident I guess I’d chalk it up to an unfortunate, ugly incident, but I worry it’s all part of a much bigger problem here.

The last two movies I saw were The Avengers and Spiderman . . . and I took my son and a couple of his friends to both . . . and the four of us are already talking about going to the new Batman movie next week.  We’re texting back and forth about it.  My son and I talk trash about who’s got the high score on Angry Birds, and we sometimes debate on whether a life-size Star Wars Stormtrooper figure or Darth Vader figure would be cooler for the living room (you know, if we could only get one).

My dad took me to see the original Jaws, and when I came out of the theater shell-shocked he simply said, “Well you wanted to see it, there it is.”  And we didn’t argue about Stormtroopers or video games, we argued about whether Ted Williams was the greatest hitter of all times . . . actually we didn’t really argue that . . . Ted Williams is the greatest hitter of all times . . . I just mostly listened to my dad tell  me about it.

My dad read big, impressive looking books.  He read the book Hawaii.  It was huge.  It was a hard cover.  It sat prominently on the book shelves in his den.  I don’t own a book shelf, and I’m currently reading the Hunger Games, and I’m seriously debating on whether I should finish it since the movie just came out.

Now neither my father nor I can fix anything around the house, we’re pretty much useless there (actually add that to the things Whipple men can’t do), but when my dad spoke he sounded impressive, my vocabulary mainly consists of words like cool, awesome, actually and frankly (yes I’ve started using the word “frankly” as I think it sounds more impressive. . . it’s not), and I write blogs mainly about my on-going quest to get my wife to have sex with me.

Seriously, at this point I’m just thrilled I wasn’t around to fight in World War II as we’d all be speaking German right now.  Well, I’m only 41, so I might still find my calling.  My wife loves to tell me that Julia Child didn’t even learn to cook until her late 30’s.  I don’t like to cook, but I can see how that might inspire someone to start something new.  Anything.

And as far as a career role model, I guess it’s a good thing that my sons see their mom getting dressed and going downtown for work every day. While no one can figure out what she does, they do like visiting her office because there are lots of cute girls and cool views of the lake and the city.   That may be enough to inspire them.