I'm Not Protected

Being a dad is a reciprocal thing.  I teach my children well their father's hell (to borrow a line from an old song) and they, in turn, teach me.

A delightful aspect of having Tax Deductions is they tell you the truth.  They don't filter anything.

"Dad, you smell bad."

"Dad, you look nice."

"Dad, you need to shave."

"Dad, you have a booger on your chin."

I appreciate the truth.  I like to be told how it is.  This is true in all aspects of my life; I dislike political correctness with a passion.  Over the years, Americans have hidden Truth (with an intentional capital "T") behind a wall of euphemisms and it is partly the reason why our country is in its current condition.  

It has made us soft as a people.  We no longer face issues head-on.  The raw, naked truth hurts.  And Americans don't like to hear the truth.

Fat people are no longer fat.  They are "metabolically challenged."  Ugly people are no longer ugly.  They are "aesthetically challenged."  Poor people are no longer poor, they are "financially challenged."  Stupid people are no longer stupid.  They are "intellectually challenged." [Actually, they are just f***ing stupid.]

But the formula is fool-proof:  just add "-challenged" to your calamity and you are automatically protected by federal laws which prohibit discrimination, bigotry or prejudice.  Why would you even attempt to better yourself?  You're protected by law.  Let Uncle Sam take care of you.  

Sure, this is an all-too-simplistic point of view, but I will maintain this ain't what the Civil Rights Act was all about.   You are free to disagree, but get your own damn blog to do so.

But let me get to my point.  (I have a tendency to digress with relative ease.)

The other day, the Boy asked me to make him a paper airplane.  Now, I'm not exactly the Boeing of paper airplane makers; in fact, you could say I am "paper-airplane-construction challenged."  

But, for the Boy, I did my best.

I carefully folded the paper the only way I knew how and presented him with the final product.  It sort of resembled an airplane.  Kind of. 

"Fly it!" the Boy enthused.  

So I did...  Thud.  

Kamikaze!  Nose first, right into the kitchen floor.

The Boy looked at the bent contraption, wrinkled his forehead and then looked back at me.  

"That's not very good, Dad," he proclaimed.  And he was right.  It sucked.

I was lacking in a skill.  And I intended to better myself.  

Being the tech-savvy dude I am, I dialed up the ol' modem and got on the information superhighway. I Googled "paper airplanes" and started to woodshed.

The Speaker of the House shook her head.  "Are you really looking up how to make a paper airplane?" she asked, with that all too familiar I-married-a-moron look on her face.

Ya damn right I am.

I quickly learned that illustrated paper airplane instructions weren't exactly easy to follow, but I kept trying and eventually figured out how to make a simple glider that actually flew.

Then I upped my game and made me a flying eagle.  I practiced over and over until I memorized the intricate folds.

And yes, that baby can zip through the air.

The Boy with a flying eagle.

So at least now when the Boy asks me to make him a paper airplane, I honestly can say I don't suck at it.   I learned a new skill and improved myself.

After all, I had to.  I wasn't protected by federal law.