Greetings faithful readers. I just woke up from a three hour nap, feeling wide awake, refreshed, mentally focused and ready to fulfill all your Mitch related needs. Quick update. Yes, we finally got a vehicle. Little Mitch wanted a pink Challenger, his dream car, I wanted the sixties Bat-mobile, my dream car, Mrs. Mitch wanted something reliable, with a high safety rating, good fuel consumption and no rust, her dream vehicle. My word, my wife is so practical, if she could, she would clip coupons for sex. “oh, you know what, I got a coupon here for 25% off foreplay when combined with you scooping the cat litter box, cannot be combined with any other offers or promotions.” We decided to be original and unique from the rest of suburbia and got a silver minivan. It’s official, the cool train has officially left Mitch station.
Actually, I will admit I wanted the minivan for the storage capacity. My god, when did I become so domesticated? The internal conflict I was feeling between my fleeting coolness of my twenties and the impending suburban domesticity of my thirties manifested itself with me breaking out my KISS concert t-shirt thats been in storage for a decade, and wearing that as we ran family errands this morning in the new family minivan. Nothing screams rock and roll desperation like wearing a KISS t-shirt as you take your sick kid to the doctor, then to the dollar store. In an attempt to hang onto my last shred of pre-suburban domestication Little Mitch and I dubbed the minivan “The Mitchmobile.” A thinly veiled desperate attempt to “cool up” the minivan in the face of Mrs. Mitch’s decree that Little Mitch and I are banned from “geeking up” the vehicle with any superhero decals, stickers or any other science fiction paraphernalia.
Why am I getting this fear lately of losing the coolness I had in my twenties? Mrs. Mitch will argue I was never cool. In fact the reason she said she was initially attracted to me was because I was dorky, brilliant and could make her laugh. I want that put on a Christmas card and mail it to all the girls who turned me down for a date in high school. Especially the first girl I ever asked out. You know that saying when you ask a girl out the worst she can say is no? That’s a complete flaming pile of lies.
The first girl I ever asked out berated me for how dare I ask her out, then she interrogated me for the names of which of her friends gave me her number, then threatened me to never think of calling her again. Easily the most terrifying forty five second phone conversation of my naive fourteen year old life. Asking a girl out was terrifying enough for a grade nine boy, but this was just sadistic brutality. The aftermath was it took me until grade twelve to learn to talk to females. I was absolutely terrified of receiving another berating from the fairer sex. There is two upsides to this story. One, I broke out this story once at a bar with my buddies and a bunch of girls we just met and I got tons of sympathetic “awws” and hugs from the ladies. In the long run it all worked out well, I landed Mrs. Mitch a totally hot babe, who gets hotter as she gets older, while I just get hairier and flabbier. We’re like a TV sitcom family; a loveable overweight funny family man schlub with a smoking hot wife, and smart ass kid.
So if I was never cool according to Mrs. Mitch what is it? Where is this fear of suburban domesticity coming from? I think it’s we all like to think that we are unique individuals and we fight as much as we can to carve our own identity. We’re not as unique as we think we are, we’re all pretty much the same with minor variations. We’re all kind of mediocre when you really think about it. I wouldn’t say its going as far as a mid life crisis, or a crisis of identity more of a “do I become the thirty three year old wearing KISS t-shirts, still reading comic books, who likes to think he still rocks hard but is in bed most weekends by 11:00 PM guy?” Or do I go completely domestically bland and start wearing khakis, wear T-Shirts that do not feature superhero logos or Star Trek slogans on them, buy some sweaters and talk real estate like everybody else does at social situations?
I took Little Mitch to a birthday party a few months back and I was the only dad there. At first I thought, “Wicked, I’m the only dad here, lets flirt with some of the hot moms and try out some new material for the blog and get some laughs.” It didn’t happen. All they talked about was how smart, special, unique, and gifted their “Braden, Cayden, Aiden, Jayden, Mayden, Zayden” or any other variation of an “en” name was and real estate. I said to Mrs. Mitch when we got home that it was like all the hyper competitive catty moms were whipping out their metaphorical mom wangs to measure and compare them. A couple thing ladies. It was a birthday party for kids in Little Mitch’s gifted pre-kindergarten class, all the kids are gifted! Which means in comparison none of them are really that special from one another! Second, you are boring as hell when all you talk about is real estate for two hours. Real estate talk is like phone sex dirty talk for some people I swear. “oh, yeah talk about the counter offer again on that bi-level ranch style duplex again, you bad boy, oooooh.”
You know now that I think about it, I’m over thinking this minivan existential crisis of identity. I’m still Mitch no matter what, and Little Mitch thinks I’m the coolest guy ever and that’s all that really matters, no matter what we drive or what t-shirt I wear.