Somewhere Only We Know

neoplastik:

ONLY 90’S KIDS WILL GET THIS: crippling debt and ceaseless unemployment

(via itsinthestars)

The other night , I was thinking about how someday I’m going to dance with my dad for that traditional “father-daughter” dance. I’m not planning on getting married any time soon, but my brain was thinking of everything and anything late at night when I should be asleep, and for some reason, I couldn’t seem to pin down a song that we would  dance to. 

You see, my dad’s kinda picky about his music. In fact, he’s well-known for it-he had a brief stint as a DJ when he was in college, but was promptly removed from the job when he refused to pay the music of the cheesy hair bands that were so popular then, in favor of his British invasion music. I can remember wandering into the den late at night, finding my dad jamming out to his bands on Pandora. He has great taste, I’ll admit.  I would spin around to the sounds of Of Montreal and Kings of Convenience and the Postal Service and Belle and Sebastian, while he sat there, bobbing his head back and forth, just straight jamming. That was the best.

So, as you can see, picking one song that my dad and I would dance to someday proves to be a difficult task. I have plenty of time, of course, but it got me thinking: it is so hard to categorize someone you’ve known your whole life. My dad has always been the same Philip, same personality, same deep rumbling laugh, same goofy dances. But I see different sides of him as I get older.  

I’ll admit, when we were younger, we would fight. Our personalities are so similar, we would often butt heads, stubbornly going to our respective corners, always rearing up for a fight. But when it came down to it, he’s always been someone that I knew I could turn to for comfort. When my grandpa died, he was the one in my room late at night, stroking my hair and whispering that he loved me and that everything would be fine. He’s the one that I’ve always turned to with a problem. I trust his opinion, because I know that he knows me better than I know myself sometimes. His advice soothes me to the core, and his simple instructions have helped me get through so many things, from boys (“Amy, boys like boobs, hair, smile, and eyes. You have all of those things. Don’t worry about dumb boys!”) to tests (“Life is like a river, Amy, it keeps flowing. You have to keep moving forward”).

And now, I am especially grateful that he is here. He had a health scare a week or so ago, where doctors preformed an ultrasound on his leg and found a blood clot that went from his lower leg to his upper thigh. He could of dropped dead on the spot, but luckily the doctors caught it. He’s doing ok now, and is on bed rest. I’m sure he’s eager to get going again, tackling another project or schooling some young whippersnapper in tennis. He’s always going to be that dad to me-the one that constantly seeks to move forward. I love him and am so unbelievably grateful to have him in my life.

My parents used to call me Philip Jr. when I was younger, due to our similarities. I used to hate it-I could never see myself as him. Now I do. Now I am proud and grateful to have his influence deeply embedded in me. I am his daughter, his first-born, and am Philip Jr. I love you, Dad. Happy Father’s Day.