We – by ‘we’ I mean us, as in me and you readers and writers – had a bit of a reputation.
Many six-words prompts for a segment of 6 Words post history contained comfort items, mainly wine, chocolate, and pizza. The Trinity of Indulgences, you might say. Have some downtime? Wine. Have some alone time? Chocolate. Have any time? Pizza.
Indulgences sponsor parental warfare – let’s not get it crooked.
Our friend, Janine, writes the blog Confessions of a Mommyaholic. She blogged recently of her own mommy indulgences and even furnished a printable Do Not Disturb sign. This sign bore the symbols of mommy indulgence – smartphones, sweets and the like.
Janine’s post got me thinking about dad indulgences.
Or more specifically, mine. See, I don’t speak well for daddies at large. Other daddies watch golf and use electric trimmers. They collect can koozies and stand around in garages with the neighbors and say things in really loud booming voices.
I watch old NFL highlights and use a nose-hair trimmer on occasion. I collect Stormtroopers, and stand around in the woods by myself and wonder where my golf disc landed and mutter bad words under my breath.
I’m quite classy with my indulgences, though.
A bag of ginger snaps and a bottle of store-brand coke zero, at 1 a.m., writing a post I wanted to post an hour ago. I got it like Frank Sinatra. I’m bucking the trend tonight, hacking away at 9:30 p.m. with my shorts unbuttoned and my hair all mussed up.
Here are my top five dad indulgences. You parents: What’s one of yours?
A writing day (or part of one) in Publix
Sometimes a brother just has to shove his laptop in a backpack and venture into the wild to get some writin’ done. Or, the nearest Publix, what with its free Wi-Fi and a bakery that is to pastry what Pippa Middleton is to the luxury class of royals.
I’ll grab a corner table. If I get squirrely, I bolt to the deli counter for a steak sub. I stretch my legs and hit the free samples around the joint. Hell, I can get a chunk of Havarti, a cube of brownie and a plate of romaine with grilled chicken and dressing on a good day.
A day in soccer coaching pants
It’s imperative that a coach looks and dresses the part. Some fools even brandish cleats. Try-hards. Soccer coaching pants fit baggy and allow for all sorts of action, probably even a little Chuck Norris action if I had to go all Texas Ranger on some cat.
They’re required for a training session or game day. We Lake Norman Soccer Club coaches look fresh in all black gear. I’ll tell you, though, when there’s no coaching to do, to dress in the next comfiest outfit since Underoos? That’s the way to go.
Totino’s pizza and a root beer
I rooted for the USFL’s Arizona Wranglers, mostly for their cool copper helmets. They played one year for the USFL championship, and do you know who gave two hells? Me. Only me. Every other kid in the neighborhood played outside while I watched the game.
I settled in with a Totino’s all to myself – with crispy crust – and a cold root beer. Arizona won that day and so did I. Even now when I have a sick day and need a lift, I’ll cough up $1.36 (plus tax) on a combo pizza and really live on the other side for 15 minutes.
All so cosmic. Disc golf, 96% of the time, becomes my escape into the woods. Chasing plastic discs becomes the world’s only challenge. I’ve missed yoga a while, but it centers me after I’ve conquered the series of challenges with which it attacks a 44-year-old body.
Meditation comes into play more every day. What incredible powers. I can put my soul on ice and zap-heal parts of me I’m not sure could fix on their own. I’m still learning, too. It’s warded off pain and coaxed understanding and more than I could ever imagine.
Box seat at Fenway
My indulgences cost little. Even if I splurge on name-brand root beer, we’re talking about 3 bones, tops. Last week, I bought a bleacher seat at Fenway for $27 to watch the Red Sox face the Indians in the approaching twilight of a gorgeous New England afternoon.
I’d once reasoned a man should feel comfortable spending his age on a game ticket. I could have upgraded to the grandstand, then; I’m glad I didn’t. An evening immersed in history among new friends on the edge of the vast, historic outfield?
Right where I needed to be.