There are times when I'm mildly accused of having Depression-era sensibilities. That is not to say that I am cheap. I'm not, really. I just prefer to think that I'm not particularly wasteful. I can see the point, I guess.
For example, I have a three-tiered system for running shoes. When they have worn our their usefulness for running, they are relegated to lawn mowing duty. Once they are thoroughly and indelibly stained with chlorophyll, they earn the right to be worn in the muddy garden.
Only the worst of the worst graduate to the garbage can. On and on it goes, like the circle of life.
It is hereditary. I remember going to my grandparents' house when I was a kid and watching my grandpa mow the lawn in plaid shorts, an old dress shirt, black socks, and a raggedy pair of black wingtip shoes. In fairness to him, he was an actual Depression survivor.
In my travel kit is exactly one cheap plastic comb. Hey, if the hotel is going to leave it there on the vanity along with the unnecessarily small shampoo bottles, who am I to leave it behind? I ain't all uppity.
For years now, I have taken some domestic grief for my, ahem, frugality. This comb has become a symbolic representation - oft cited - to illustrate the opposing viewpoint. I just haven't been able to bring myself to part with it. (I just realized that this was an unintentional pun. I'm leaving it in.) In the back of my mind, I always think, "You never know when it'll come in handy."
Several evenings ago, I was awakened in the night by a little voice calling, "Daddy? Daddy?" I investigated. There stood my little one, her arms held upward in the universally understood 'pickmeuppickmeup' gesture. Once fully engulfed in my arms, she snuggled herself to my chest and promptly began vomiting.
The whole experience itself was a bit surreal. Sure, I'd been spit up on before...and even got peed on pretty good one time. By my daughter, just to be perfectly clear about that.
But this was my first experience with a full-fledged barfing. I was able to shuffle her to the toilet, using my chest as a poor excuse for a bib. Once there, I cradled her like a little teapot over the bowl. Her wretching spoke to me: "Tip me over, and pour me out."
(Life has a way of going full-circle. When you're a young man, part of the squiring process may involve holding the hair of a potential mate as she drives the porcelain bus at bartime. If that all goes well, it may eventually lead to children. Which in turn leads to more opportunities to exercise barfing chivalry with the fruit of your collective loins.)
Guys: Nothing reinforces that you're in it for the long haul with your child more more than using a cheap plastic comb to rake the vomit out of your chest hair. It had to be done before I stepped into the shower. There were chunks of pineapple involved. Pineapple clogs drains, y'know.
It all speaks to the unconditionality of your love and responsibility. At least there was a luminous full moon shining through a skylight as I separated the solids from my chest. There in the moonlight, I felt like a werewolf who'd gotten into a bad batch of shellfish.
Now that I know what that's like, I can cross that curiosity off of my bucket list.
I'm kind of glad that she threw up on me. It makes me feel like a genius for hanging onto that comb all these years. HA! TAKE THAT! My only hope is that next time she gets sick, I have an old shoe handy. It seems reasonable that any criticism of my fritterish habits will cease at that point.
Right. And immediately after that happens, me and my good pal Bigfoot will take a ride on our unicorns over to Atlantis so we can watch the Loch Ness Monster enjoying a swim.
P.S. I need a new comb. There are standards for finally throwing something away.
