Daddy Cool

It’s Fathers’ Day here in Australia, and what better day to write about my dad, PapaK.

There are lots of things I could write about my dad. I could write, for instance, about how he sets the (very high) bar for all the men in my life.

About his limited grasp on pop culture, which, over the years, has lead to dad:
a) searching for Pearl Jam in the Spreads isle of Woolies;
b) summarising the Harry Potter books/films thusly - ‘the bad man put himself in the snake’;
c) asking for an ‘Ub (rhymes with Hub) four-oh’ CD and being told in no uncertain terms by the sales assistant that ‘actually it’s UB40, sir’.
d) responding to my excitement about Beyonce and Jay Z’s pregnancy by suggesting we could throw the baby shower at Chez Papa/MamaK – ‘we can fire up the BBQ and put the big table under the shady tree’ – not realising that Beyonce and Jay Z are: i) not people I actually know in real life, ii) mega famous, and, iii) probably not BBQ-and-a-big-table-under-the-shady-tree people.

(On that last point: I’ll admit my excitement was a little over involved and dad could be forgiven for thinking that Bey and Jay were close personal friends of mine).

About his endless texts, phone calls, and emails from overseas that make you fell like you’re right there with him – down to what he had for breakfast (cereal).

About how he can’t read maps. At all.

About the time in the early 1980s that he king hit Michael Hutchence, of INXS fame (believe).

About being sent to school with his instructions to Learn Three Things and Be Good.

About his complete inability to understand what’s going on in a film, or remember its title (‘it’s the one about the house – YOU KNOW’).

I could write about all of those things, and more. But today, I’m going to write about his excellent taste in massive, oversized, el cheapo sunnies from South East Asia.

My dad, like all good papas, brings home presents whenever he travels overseas. Along with duty free perfume, that special Jurlique hand cream MamaK and I love, undies from Marks and Spencers/Victoria’s Secret, and fancy tea and chocolates, you can bet your bottom dollar that somewhere in his luggage is a sunnies stash.

There’s nothing subtle about PapaK’s taste in sunnies. He’s a Leo: the only subtle Leos do is the meat axe variety. Any yet, he knows me well enough to pick the outlandish, oversized, embellished, ridiculous glasses that will stir something in my shy, retiring Piscean soul. He knows which shades will make me feel instantly fabulous - like Sophia Loren/Madonna/Farrah Fawcett/Dianna Ross/Jackie O - the moment I slip them on my face.

I’ve got a whole stack of shades on my dressing table, all chosen by PapaK. I wear them every day. And whenever the coffee guy, or the girl at the gym, compliments me on my awesome shades, it gives me great pride to say that:
a) they cost a grand total of $2 in a market somewhere in SEA; and
b) my cool dad chose them for me.

I’m one lucky girl to have a dad as cool as PapaK. Happy Father’s Day dad: thanks for the awesome shades, and for everything else.

The Future’s So Bright I’ve Got To Wear Shades…

Many summers ago, during a companionable swim on a perfect South Coast beach, a suntanned, 19 year old Peggy glibly declared to her handsome swimming companion that 24 was her ‘Scary Age’. The age at which she would begin to see herself as an adult. The age at which she would begin to achieve adult things. The age at which she would begin using anti-wrinkle eye cream.

In a few short weeks, readers, I am turning 24.

What does this Scary Age mean now that I’m staring down its barrel? Well, I guess my 19 year old self was right – I can no longer see myself as anything but an adult, because I am doing all those adult things which seemed so far away at 19. I’ve moved out of home. I’m no longer working in retail. I’ve moved on from my first car (R.I.P LaShonda) to a car with power windows and central locking, and 4 doors. I’ve finished one degree and am midway through a PhD. I no longer drink and smoke like I used to. I’m punctual, at least more punctual than I used to be. I have rich and beautiful relationships with many loved ones. I bake my own sourdough bread. In short, readers, I feel very grown up, and ready to tackle The Scary Age head on.

There still remains the issue, though, of wrinkles, and the necessary commencement of early prevention measures. Last semester I noticed that I had a groove on my forehead, in a rather unusual spot – high up, and near my hairline. My first wrinkle. I immediately began to pull faces at the mirror. What facial expression was it that I was using to give myself an early onset wrinkle at 23? I tried smiling. It wasn’t a happy wrinkle. Ok, frowning then – still no corresponding line. Brows furrowed in deep contemplation of life’s mysteries? Nope. It was only when I gave up the silly game of pulling faces at the mirror, and let my incredulity at this whole situation show on my face, that it became plain. As the saying goes, you get the face you deserve at 50 (or 23), and the face I apparently deserve is the face of incredulity.

Cue existential crisis.

Since this disturbing discovery of my persistent incredulity, I have been trying earnestly to think un-incredulous thoughts. So far, so unsuccessful. There are too many WTF moments in life, particularly when you mark first year essays with the frequency that I do. So, I have compensated for my inability to be credulous by drinking lots of water, eating lots of avocados, and, most importantly, wearing sunglasses. All the time. Hence the title of this post.

You see, I feel like I can face anything that The Scary Age, and all the ages after me, throws my way when I’m ensconced in a pair of oversized shades. Somehow, putting them on makes me feel collected and together, like I am competent and can do all these grown up things I have to – and want to – do.

Like working on a perfect summer’s day rather than swimming at that perfect beach.