Because it was Papa and co. Because after years of being the partially troubled child I was eager to show my father my new life, in which I’m not a fuck-up in anyway shape or form. On the contrary, here I am a smart, well-liked, well-adjusted, and, dare I say, successful freshman. Because my first ever college newspaper article came out on Friday and Papa, regardless of the content, has always been one of my biggest fans. Because Saturday was a rugby day and I was guaranteed some playing time. Because I’m a daddy’s girl.
And you know what?
This weekend was great. A delicious dinner on Friday during which he found out about my tattoo and the Minimalist. An action packed rugby game on Saturday followed a while later by another dinner, in which I not only admitted to him that drink, but that my entire team “shot the boot*” out of my rain boot. Then breakfast Sunday at my favorite diner. Lots of eating during the weekend, and now my fridge is full of lots of leftovers.
Only two things could have made the weekend better and surprise surprise (maybe it is actually a surprise) they both involve the Minimalist.
One was start weeks ago, about the same time we first did the deed. I jokingly mentioned that Papa would be at my rugby game on parents’ weekend and that I would greatly appreciate it if, in his drunken state, he didn’t “lay claim to my vagina.” That quote was used several times in the weeks preceding the visit. So was a potential knife fight between him and Papa.
Neither came to fruition, which is usually a good thing. Except that the reason neither happened was because he didn’t meet Papa, or even see him. Considering we’re in no way committed, I shouldn’t be disappointed. I should be happy (almost). But as much as I’m afraid of commitment, I’m a daddy’s girl more. Part of showing Papa my newly acquired successful life is proving that I’m no longer dating fuck-ups. I guess he’ll just have to trust me on that.
The other less than favorable part of my weekend was Saturday night. Not only was I completely sober (which may have been a good thing because it counter balanced my rugby-drunkenness) and at two different parties that got busted, but the Minimalist was a drunk ass. And not in the cute way he was Friday night, where he kept displaying his affectionate adoration of me. He was showing his feelings for me, but these particular feelings were best kept secret.
No, he didn’t suddenly list off my faults. He just got handsy and aggressive and demanding and a bit too rough, all in public. His actions behind closed doors wouldn’t have been much better, except for the times he decided it was perfectly acceptable to get disproportionately angry at the belt that I was wearing with my high-waisted skirt and start yanking it (and me) around all the while sticking his hand down my skirt. If it was behind closed doors at least I wouldn’t have nearly died of embarrassment and been able to slap him.
Instead, I stood there and took it. I tried to laugh it off and gently scold him, but nothing worked. His ass-inine behavior continued for the rest of the night.
You’re probably wondering why I didn’t leave. Tell him to call me when he sobered up.
I have my reasons. Reasons I haven’t told a soul. Reasons that connect us in a way few could know.
Reasons or no reasons, I stayed the night. And as usual, the next morning (after I woke up, changed, ate with Papa, and returned) he was as adorable as usual. We laid in bed, kissing and cuddling.
And before you start thinking I’m martyring myself or that I’m setting myself up to be a battered not-girlfriend, know I won’t take it again. He gets one by, which he used. Next time I’m leaving till he’s sober. And you can hold me to it.
*Shooting the boot-in rugby, a term usually meaning someone drank beer out of a game cleat, but in this case, since I was wearing tall rainboots, it means we filled up one of my boots and the team all drank out of it.
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