Back in the days when I used to act my age (which stopped around the time acting your age entailed applying the principle know today as “cleanliness”), I was a pretty picky eater. Today I have a “selective diet,” but back then I just didn’t like a lot of stuff. This stuff consisted of everything that did not include a milk chocolate exterior and peanut butter core.
My parents realized that if I didn’t eat some stuff I didn’t like I was probably gonna die. This wouldn’t have been a big issue except I’m the third of four kids and we’re all spaced evenly three years apart. Me dying would have thrown a big wrench into the system, so tactics were employed to get me to eat anything of nutritional value. Mostly, they employed a reward system called “No dessert unless you eat your food.” This worked pretty effectively. However, I remember with great pride the day my brother, having not eaten his meal and instead eaten a pack of raisins, declared the raisins his dessert and marched off triumphantly.
I give kudos to my brother now because I couldn’t at the time. Kudos are definitely a dessert.
When a dish was particularly nasty, my Dad would say, “Oh just eat it, it’ll put hair on your chest.” At the time I was as easily sold on stuff. Actually, I still am. (Damn you infomercials and your sweet siren call!) So when I heard the “hair on your chest” line, I thought, yeah, I’ll be manly and eat this.
Fast-forward to today, where Bret realizes, hey, nobody really wants a hairy chest because none of the girls that I know find that attractive. That’s so not cool, Dad. Looking back, the exchange seems to go something like this:
Dad: “Here, eat this bad stuff and then something bad will happen to you.”
Me: “Yay! Bad stuff!”
Since society no longer holds people responsible for actions that can be blamed on parents, I will not be forced to pull tricks like this on my kids:
Me: “Son, I know you don’t like cleaning up your room, but hey, it’ll put warts on your face.”
Son: “Yay! Witches are the coolest!”
Now before you go call social services, realize that there’s no way that I’ll actually have any kids. That would require me to be physically attractive to women, which will be impossible because while I maintain a pretty smooth chest at the moment, once I go through puberty, I’ll have a permanent sweater thanks to dear old Dad.
But Bret, you’re 21, you haven’t gone through puberty?
Hey, when I say I don’t act my age, it’s not just lip service.