My hero

It was 17 years ago today that my life changed. Seventeen years. The amount of time allotted in one's life for a majority of the non-threatening fuck-ups. Once the big 1-8 comes along, people say, that's when it counts.. that's when every mistake you make will follow you around like a cat in heat, clawing and howling at you relentlessly. I don't think that's true, I think we systematically fuck up. And then as we grow older, find ways of rationalizing the past fuck-ups in a way that makes our current fuck-ups that much easier with which to deal.

But more on that later.

Seventeen years... I can't imagine what I was like at 8 years old. My friend Priti used to tell me if she, as an adult, met herself as a young child, she was pretty sure that the little hot-head that was her pre-adolescent 'her,' would kick her adult self in the shin and run away..

Me? As a child? I remember whining. I recall my love for Chicken McNuggets. I could watch The Goonies everyday 4 times a day if need be. I loved tearing open milkweeds and watching the fuzzy seeds escape. Jumping in leaves. Sledding. Snow men, forts, chairs, balls and anything else I could fashion out of the 'packy' kind of snow.
But actually remembering how I used to think?
No.
Remembering what it was like to be confused as a child?
Unh-unh.

I remember Superman was definitely my hero, and I remember thinking that all 'heroes' were supposed to be built like him.
This line of thinking would, of course, end Tobey McGuire's career.
My dad had the Superman build. At least I thought so. In actuality, he was about 6'1," maybe about 190, had a 38-40 inch waist, and a comb-over.

He also smoked.
A lot.

But despite all of this, he was my own superhero. Sitting in the living room on his velour recliner, placing dishtowels on the armrests 'for protection' against wear, and there at any time to rescue me if the need presented itself.

He was the popular one in our family. The one everyone wanted to sit next to, the one we all took our cues from, the one we looked up to, literally.

The one we loved. In Dad we trusted.

My dad had a massive heart attack and died in the very early morning of Halloween '87. I had plans to spend the night at my friend Chrissy Novak's house. I had stuck a large ball of cotton to the butt of my pink footed pjs and had taped paper bunny ears to my pink stocking cap. Poor Chrissy Novak got a call from me, desperately apologizing for the fact that I was unable to attend her party due to 'my dad dying and all.'

I won't tell the story of how I found out.
I've told it so many times and each time I get further and further away from that little girl.
I can't channel the 8 year old in me to tell you how unfair it is to lose your 44 year old father. How she woke up morning after morning the days after unable to realize that her nightmares were much more vivid with eyes open.

Every year that passed, my dad became more and more of a legend in my head. He surpassed the achievements of Beowulf, all the labors of Hercules and could kick Reagan's ass if necessary. He was all powerful, and according to my grandmother, he was living with Hindu Gods.

I go through my head to rationalize the what ifs..

Maybe he would have become the conservative Indian father that I would have constantly bumped heads with.
Maybe he would have lost all his hair and grown obese.
Maybe he would have disappointed me a few times.
Maybe he wouldn't have understood me.

Would my dad have received Superhero status if he had lived?

I would give anything to find out.