Turning into my Dad.

Wait!   Just hold on there!

 What I mean is,  I don't want to turn into my Dad. Although I somehow think it's inevitable in some long term,  down the road,  I hopefully won't know the difference kind of way.

 On the one hand,  I recall when something of that nature was pointed out to one of my older brothers,  he simply replied that that was more or less a good thing,  since then at least we do in fact know just who our father is.
 OK,  I'll go along with that.   Not like Mom was hanging around with the Milkman,  although now that I think of it,  if you live on a farm,  your husband could also be the Milkman,  but let's not get too silly here.

 What I'm talking about are those annoying little quirks that can stealthily creep up on a person.  With women,  there's that horrifying moment when they realise they're turning into their Mothers.   With men well,  you get it.
 Thankfully along the way I had maybe just a little snippet of edumacation,  and have had a chance to go out and take a gander at a couple other places around the world.
 That more or less falls into the idea that each succeeding generation just might have a few more experiences than the last one.   So that's kind of to be expected.

For example, I do recall sitting in the car as a teenager with the ole Man,  and he very astutely pointed out that when he was my age,  getting to the nearest town that was ten miles away was an accomplishment,  whereas I had on more than one occasion at that point quite easily piloted a vehicle from Ontario to the Maritimes.   Or,  at least that was the case when I could get him out from behind the wheel long enough for him to sleep while not driving at the same time.   But that's a whole other horror story.

 No,  what I'm talking about are those things that can give a person that moment of reflection.   It's a kind of overwhelming sense of dread, really.   Hard to describe,  unless you've experienced it yourself.
 Here's what I'm talking about.
 I came to the realisation earlier today that I had been wearing the same pair of trousers for more than one day.  I'm not going to elaborate,  but it occurred to me as I hauled them on this morning (yes,  even though I'm here by myself,  I do put on pants)  that they felt like they were just about to that point when they could do a fairly convincing job of standing up by themselves.
 That was a scary moment.
Pretty much an overwhelming sense of dread.  Pardon my repetition.   It's necessary.

 I do have more than one pair of pants.   Really.

 But,  I take them off at night,  and I put them on in the morning.   It's not like I'm out there shovelling shit and hollering  "whoa"  (old farmer expression,  sorry)  so the process of them becoming somewhat unwearable is a slow subtle kind of thing.
 Horrifyingly,  the thought that went through my head was the fact that my father would wear the same clothes....well,  we're really not sure for how long.   For a long,  long time.
 When my Mother was alive,  I recall her saying,  "I've got to get those clothes off your father".  
Don't misunderstand,  what she meant was, she'd have to take them away and wash them,  or he'd put the same dirty clothes on after getting out of the shower!
 
 I'm surprised he showered,  but let's not go there.
 I recall a particular occasion,  many years later when he was living by himself in Nova Scotia after Mom had passed away,  when someone asked if he wanted to change out of his dirty clothes he replied,  as he patted his damp thigh,  "Oh,  they're just wet with sweat".

Gah!

 (I think I threw up a little in my mouth just then)


 So do you now understand my horror?
 Is this the way it's going to turn out?

 Please let me get run over by a train.  Please please please.

 Better be careful what I wish for, they've got a lot of trains here in Wienerland.  I'm kind of out numbered.


 I've actually been accused of showering too often since,  when I was out there doing my Caretaker thing in the heat of the summer,  I'd jump out of bed,  shower,  go off to work,  come home after eight hours,  shower,  put on clean clothes,  and then inevitably shower again before going to bed.  Hey,  it gets hot and humid in Southern Ontario!
Pretty sure it was some sort of deep seated refusal to ever have the slightest chance of patting myself on the thigh and saying,  "oh,  they're just wet with sweat".
At least that's the only explanation I can come up with.  Wonder what Freud would have to say about that one?

I keep the showering down to once a day here in Wienerland. 




Feel free to talk amongst yourselves.






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