An Ode to Dad Clothes

My eyelids begin to open and the first whispers of morning creep into my mind. The popcorn ceiling slowly comes into focus as the night’s dreams fade back into memory and imagination from whence they came, like a creature receding into the shadows. I reach for my phone to check the time and my email. After a few minutes of reading a couple work messages that I know I shouldn’t be checking according to my Wife, and sifting through the morning’s latest on Google News, I decide I should start my day. The dog greets me with a warm approach in an adorable yet unsubtle attempt to lick my face. After a good pet and belly rub he retreats to the end of the bed, circling back into a comfortable coil.  I stretch out my entire body in a series of rigorous pulls and shakes to wake up all my muscles for the day. My neck still stiff from the position it rested in throughout the night. When did I get this old? 

I swivel my legs out from under the covers like a well oiled lever. My feet meet the creme colored carpet, like old friends reconnecting after years apart. This is when I realize. Why am I wearing shoes? I am just emerging from bed, this doesn’t make sense. I rub my eyes in an effort to bring myself back from whatever hallucination has presented itself. The bewilderment quickly replaces any residual sleepiness, and my heart begins to race. Sure enough, as my vision returns, I see my feet encapsulated by brown boots. Hiking boots. All terrain, brown, two toned, sensible shoes. I don’t wear these. My shoes are sneakers, winter boots, flip flops or dress shoes, depending on the season, and I most certainly wouldn’t go to sleep wearing any of those. Had some sleepwalking version of myself decided to take a midnight mountain excursion? It is then that I come to the realization that I am not only wearing shoes, but I am fully clothed. What in the hell? 

Wait a second, I recognize these shoes. Flashbacks of my dad coming home from the store with four stacked shoe boxes because he was worried they may stop making the only shoes he likes, rush into my head. The tree bark brown, Moab Two hiking boots by Merrell, which he wore with visibly scrunched socks, and for almost all occasions. Every couple of years he delightfully pulled out a fresh pair from under the stairs. Thus replacing the old worn out ones, like a snake shedding its skin. It then occurs to me that these could be the last shoes I’ll ever have, a stock pile secretly hidden in a downstairs cupboard. This horrifying thought is then interrupted by visions of him and I debating over charbroiled pork vermicelli with spring rolls - a number 80, our favorite - about which version of Merrells is better. Waterproof or regular, and panic sets in. 

My eyes wander up and I see I’m also wearing hybrid pants. You know, the ones that zip off at the knee and turn into shorts. Just in case it goes from winter to summer in a flash, or the sudden urge for a speed walk sets in. These are topped by an ancient t-shirt from one of the kid’s past sports teams that has paint from some odd project and a bbq stain that never quite came out. The cherry on top is a hat from my company that I will quite honestly never part with, sweat stains, fraying and all. I am in Dad’s entire outfit, this can’t be happening. I’m only in my 40’s. I’m still cool. I’m on social media, I know what Tiktok is. I listen to Eminem and Bieber. Shit, I grew up on Biggie and Tupac. The minute I say all this in my head I notice it’s denial masking itself as reassurance. It’s only a matter of time before I’m constantly making puns, telling the same story on repeat and my kids are plotting to burn the entirety of my closet while I’m out.  

The last part of me gripping to my hip young self clutches to a shred of hope. Wait. I get it, I'm still dreaming. That comforting notion like all other rationalizations begins to evaporate, when I know that I am now out of bed, standing at the corner of the room. I glance over and my wife is still sound asleep amidst a sea of rumpled covers and pillows. The dog lifts his head, giving me a look of judgment and intrigue. This is real. Overnight I have morphed into him. I knew that his first name wasn’t the only thing he bestowed upon me. I mean, I know I obsessively live by finance and spreadsheets like he does. The thermostat is mine and mine alone. I love to make the whole family breakfast on the weekends, and lick my fingers and the butter knife along the way. And what’s wrong with asking everyone only halfway into their meal if they are finished, so that I can inevitably eat it? It dawns on me at this moment that there is no fighting this.

As I step into the mirror it is me. The sense of a Dad doppelganger having taken over wanes and it sinks in that I, in fact, own these clothes. How did this happen? One minute I was adorned in quirky graphic tees, crisp blue jeans and comfortable yet trendy runners I bought from an Instagram ad. Now all of the sudden I am dripping in sensibility, functionality and practical garb; a splitting image of the man my brothers and I admire but give a hard time. It is no surprise really. Those habits, mannerisms and apparently fashion choices adhere to you like a thick layer of Elmer’s glue. It starts out liquid, seemingly innocuous and destined to roll off. When in reality it slowly dries over time, permanently becoming part of you, like a second layer of skin. I suppose we all evolve into a divergent version of our parents. I stare back at this new form of myself and am washed over with warm acceptance as the thought of being even half as great as him makes me smile.