There are times in life when you just have to come to grips with certain things. Right now I am in the midst of one of those times. I hate to admit it, but I am becoming my dad. Don't get me wrong; I love my dad, but the prospect of being bald and in bed by 8:15 doesn't exactly make me giddy.
It started this summer. Bored and stuck in front of a computer at work one day, I ventured over to the Google Maps website. It wasn't long before the borders of central Asia caught my eye. I zipped around the globe with a click of my mouse and was soon enthralled by the streets of Rio de Janeiro.
Sounds innocent enough, I know, but then you have to consider that my dad keeps boxes and boxes full of maps and atlases. He could spend hours staring at those things. Maybe my approach was that of a young, tech-savvy university student, but the fact remains, that the action was that of an aging professional with a healthy interest in geography.
Since then, I've lived in fear of the next step toward dadness. I worry that one day I'm going to wake up and think to myself, ""You know, those creased Bermuda shorts don't look that stupid."" From there, it'll only get worse. More dad thoughts will provoke more dad actions.
Foreign phrases like ""Heaven's to Mergatroid"" and ""Oh, flip back. I want to see who's winning the golf tournament,"" have entered my lexicon and I fear they are here to stay. Previously unrefined tastes for things like fine Canadian whiskey and barbeque sauce will mature into full-blown connoisseurship. Before too long, I'll be cursing the mailman for not delivering my mail on time and writing off Wisconsin sports teams before the seasons even begin. I fear that these actions are just around the corner.
When that happens, it will be official: I will have become my father. Right now, I'm not sure how I feel about it.
Most guys, save for maybe Hulk Hogan's kids, are absolutely terrified by the prospect of becoming their father (can you imagine Brooke Hogan bald and in a leotard flying off the top rope? Me neither). It has nothing to do with personal affection. I love my dad. At his best, he is jovial and funny. At his worst, he's inadvertently hilarious.
One episode of this inadvertent comedy took place when my dad was trapped in a so-called traffic jam in the basement of a parking ramp and flustered beyond belief, so he called my brother's cell phone to scream for help. Unfortunately, he got the voicemail, a technological challenge he was not suited to cope with under the strenuous circumstances. The resulting voicemail has since become a part of Hasler family folklore.
When he reads this, my dad will undoubtedly think he is being picked on, and without question, he most certainly is. Though if imitation is the most sincere form of flattery, I'd argue that mockery is a close second. For now, I'll stick to the latter because I'm not sure I'm ready to put on the tan baseball cap or start reading alternate history novels quite yet.
