Rough, tough, hard to bluff, and used to many hardships...

Recently, while on a road trip with my boyfriend Matt, I found myself reminiscing about my old man. I suppose I should explain, my father and I are not on speaking terms at the moment. We tend to go through cycles of not-speaking every few years. It is usually the result of us being hurtful to one another...or non-commmunicative. My Dad and I have similar reactions to betrayal/hurt- we retreat. We retreat with a quickness, and we stay there solidly and stubbornly for quite some time. Then, our hearts begin to ache, and our resolve (thankfully) weakens. Anyway, my resolve is currently weakening. My emotional shell is thinning by the minute. I miss my Dad. There is something mysterious about the open road that frees my mind and opens my heart a little bit. Maybe it's the transitory sensation, but I find that my eyes water more readily and my feelings gain clarity. So on this particular drive, I caught myself composing a conversational love note to my father. Well, so it goes....

My father has a work ethic that could bend steel. It's true. The show "Dirtiest jobs" is like a visual representation of my Dad's resume. He has pursued back breaking labor to the fullest. He was a roofer, a car-hauler, and candlestick maker ...(well-okay, not the last one, but you get the idea).  The man didn't shy away from humble, sysphus-esque positions. He came home each day with the heavy smell of carbon paper and gasoline. I loved it. If there was a perfume that could perhaps capture those two scents, and maybe infuse it with something slightly feminine- like lilac- I'd be SOLD. I used to hold my nose to his pinstriped, collared work-shirts, and just inhale the aromatic cocktail that was my Dad. He also would spritz himself in jovan musk, for special occasions- of course. Which only added another element to my paternal, olfactory experience. It must also be noted, that I was a tried and true Daddy's girl for the first 6 years of existence. I would follow him to hell and back; not wanting to miss a moment of fun and spontaneity. I was the apple of Daddy's eye. When he spoke to me, it was as if I were his equal. He never underestimated my awareness or intelligence...regardless of their immaturity. He was an excellent partner in crime for a kid. He indulged my imagination with gusto. Dad's world was enchanting; full of sand-palaces, playdough civilizations, elegant tea-parties, frog-catching, and chalk masterpieces.  As I wistfully told Matt- "I thought he hung the moon".

In addition to delightfully trotting through my father's world of whimsy, he also taught me the grave importance of hard work. Pure and simple. He believed in the dignity of hard work. He always told me "I don't care if you work at McDonalds, just as long as your working with integrity". In my Dad's eyes, nothing was more despicable than an unemployed, able-bodied individual.

My very first, formal job was at a local pizza joint. With my brothers. The manager was a friend of theirs. Need I say more?  They put me through the crucible on that first day. I fled to my father's house after my shift, in tears.

"I hate it. I'm quitting tomorrow. Everyone hates me, and I feel stupid" I cried in angst.
"No you're not. It was your first day- what did you expect? It's work for a reason. You go back tomorrow and swallow your pre-madonna pride. Follow orders, and learn. As fast as you can."

This is the part where his hard-ass facade falters and he offers me a hanky from his back pocket.

"But they're all yelling at me, and I feel like I just get in the way. I didn't know what to do" I whined.
He laughed in disgusted amusement.
"Well, yeah. That was your first day. Welcome to the world dear. You go back with thicker skin, but my daughter is not giving up so easily. You have seen worse"

I sat for a moment, considering his position and attitude. He was right. Work is a challenge- it challenges the body and the ego. If one cannot accept this challenge, than they belong to a softer section of people- one that was unacceptable for me to join.

With snot running down my wrists and a newfound sense of fortitude I croaked
"I need to get tougher I guess."

He nodded.

On one of our first dates, Matt described me as being "rough, tough, hard to bluff, and used to many hardships". I scoffed; I feel that I have grown quite wimpy at this point in my life- gone soft I suppose! But I think, if Matt is correct- this thick skin is brought to you by my brothers, and, of course, my old man.