Purportedly Preposterously Impetuous

Recently, a friend of mine decided that he's going to buy himself one of these:



He told me he was going to do so on Facebook, so I know it's true.

He lives in Florida, he's married, he's a father, a Monty Python lover-- kind of like me. He's a mason, and, a while back, he stumbled upon this blog because he initially thought, due to the title, that my blog must have something to do with masons, or, at least, masonite.

Boy, was he wrong.

But he stayed, because he's not just about being a mason, he's also, apparently, about peurile, offensive, thoughtless jaw-jacking. And I respect him for that, same as I respect you for that.

He's kind of a cool guy, this friend of mine-- but I didn't realize quite how cool he was until he told me he was going to buy a VW Thing-- and not just buy a VW Thing, mind you, but he's planning on painting it L-87 Pearl White, slapping some 53s on the hood and the doors and running red, white and blue stripes all along it.

Herbie, a beautiful Thing.

So, okay, I used to just think he was cool. Now it's turned into kind of a man-crush.

People ask me all the time about what it's like being a father of twins. And I typically answer something trite and/or stupid, because, really, there's no answer, and the people who ask don't really want to know anyway. It's just something to ask, like, "How are you doing?". No one actually cares. And it's refreshing, though, to answer the "what's it like being a father of twins" question, because it's at least a break from "Getting any sleep these days?" which honestly makes me want to jam my thumb in a motherfucker's eye-socket till the ball bursts.

Being a father of twins is interesting. It's different. It's weird. Sure, there are times when it's wonderful, like when my daughter stares at me like I'm made of cotton candy, rainbows and Jesus-flakes, or when my son giggles impishly for no reason at all that I can discern. And there are also times when it's horrible, like when they're on the changing table and they're vomiting and coughing and shitting, right after you've just struggled to put a brand-new diaper on.

If I had to put my finger on something that I miss, it's that impetuous side of me that seems to be no longer ticking-- not that the pre-twin me would necessarily go out and blow $5,000 on an antique Volkswagen (I mean, I've done that about a thousand times in my head, at least this year) but there's a fire that's definitely been doused somewhat, or at least, the fire fighters have the blaze under control. And maybe there's too much of me that's under control, and not enough spark waiting to turn tinder into ember.

I don't know.

It's times like these where I can't help but feel silly, and selfish, and, well-- I guess silly and selfish covers it. I used to like being silly and selfish, ridiculous and impetuous, and I'm not sure how much I like being the opposite, if indeed that is what I've become, by force or by choice. Or both.

One thing I can say with absolute certainty, when my friend purchases his antique VW and it proudly dons its 53s, I hope to at least be in the passenger seat, which is most likely where I belong.