My dad’s ready to go for coffee and stands up and puts on his sports coat. His shirt has a few stains. His undershirt is yellowing. His fly is open. Does one tell one's dad his fly is open?
Aidan came home from school on Wednesday night not feeling well. Dizzy, he said. He didn’t have a temperature. His grandmother texted me pictures of his mom at a party and told me to give Aidan medicine and maybe go to the hospital. She worries like that. Aidan went to bed early and the next morning still wasn’t feeling good, no fever, but largargic. The other kids went to school and I worked from home to take care of him.
Aidan didn’t do well in last semester’s final exam. Really did not do well. It turns out Friday was the make up exams for students who didn’t do well. He wasn’t sick, he was stressed.
I am at a 70 person all hands meeting where my boss is trying to explain a change of strategy. He is the boss apparently because he talks a lot. Someone asks a question about the strategy he doesn’t have the answer too so I stand up to explain. I talk in bullet points. By the time I start my third and last bullet my thoughts are racing in different illogical directions and I have to slow down and reconstruct the bullet points in my mind from the beginning. My body is shaking when I finally sit down.
I am 16 years old and washing dishes in my childhood home. For some reason my dad is in the kitchen after dinner which he seldom was. He hands me a dish. I try to make a joke about something, I forget what. He thought I was saying he had bad breath. He explodes and I think he’s going to take my head off.
The food arrives for pizza party movie night. I frustrated with something and haven’t had a chance to clear the dinner table yet. I call the kids in to help with setup like I normally do. Aidan just opens the pizza box to take a piece. Elisa knocks over her soda onto the floor spilling everywhere. I get angry. Tell them they need to help. I don’t like it when I get angry.
I am at work washing my hands in the bathroom. As I dry them I look at myself in the mirror. Nice shirt. Too bad it’s wrinkled as all get out. When did I stop pressing?