On days that don't end in the word 'day,' my dad is usually cranky. If he's not cranky, he's an animated chatter box, both intelligent and socially awkward. He doesn't cook (well) and he's no handyman. My most painful elementary school memories are of him failing to style my hair into the popular French braid adorned by many a private Catholic school girl. Instead, he would wake up earlier than usual just to make his version of the French braid: knots in my hair with red rubber bands and bobby pins. (Let's face it, I was high a maintenance Kindergartner without a clue about French braids, despite my need to be constantly in style.)
In high school, every basketball game he attended turned into a who-could-embarrassingly-cheer-at-your-child-the-loudest competition. While he still remains the quintessentially embarrassing parent, I am nothing but proud to call him my father. Especially because the man can dance.
Line dance, that is:
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