We’re not going to a wedding or a formal affair. Just doing dinner at Applebee’s, right? Yet you come out of the bathroom, dressed and ready, with your shirt tightly tucked into your pants. Like super tight. Like you’re official. Like it’s a tux. Like you’re a good little boy tucked away inside a big strong man.
You can’t be comfortable. To make matters worse, the tautness is secured by a belt, holding the garment down and in. But I can’t keep my lastima down and I can’t keep my tears in. I want to rush over to you and pull up and out, release the fabric and let your body have room to bend. You can’t even turn, it’s all so strained! I want to give you permission to be casual and playful and messy.
But your way is to keep it together, even when you don’t have to. Because that’s what dads do. As if sometimes you just give up on having fun. We walk into the Bee’s and you look like the most conservative and conventional person here. And I’m definitely the most dejected and depressed. Because I can’t stop glancing at what looks like the one-piece you’re wearing.
Then you order a chocolate shake. For dinner. You wink and you smile, and I realize I’m wrong. You have your own kind of fun all along.
p.s. I am no fashionista, but I believe there’s a time and a place for a tuck.