Sure, you’ll sacrifice your body in hopes of getting a slice of the American Dream.
Too bad your family isn’t quite on the same team….
“I’ve got big dreams, Dad! And you can either help me pursue those dreams wholeheartedly, or you can step aside and I’ll go down this path alone and without your support.”
My dad let out a sigh in that way only an overly-pragmatic farmer could.
“Listen, Son, you’re not in high school any more–you’re a man now. And you’ve got to start taking the whole ‘being an adult’ thing more seriously.”
“Dad, what makes you think I’m not taking things seriously?” I protested.
“Well, for starters, have you looked in the mirror lately? That ridiculous two-tone hair of yours would be the first clue that maybe–just maybe–you have dubious executive function.”1J.K. Kidding–Dad would never use the term ‘dubious’.
It was now my turn to sigh in that way only a precocious 18-year-old punk could.
“Still sore that I went and dyed my hair while you were off gambling in Topeka, eh? Well, I’ll just ignore that comment of yours, like the mature grown-ass man that I am,” I said, scrambling for the moral high ground.
Dad rolled his eyes at this.
“Nevertheless, you have to understand that from here on out, you can’t just make such decisions so flippantly.2Okay, so this is how you know that I’m having to take historical artistic liberties with the dialog–Dad would have never used a word like that. Especially ones like this, where you really need to be sure that you’re ready for the time commitment–not to mention the emotional energy required and the physical suffering you’re bound to endure along the way.”
“Dad,” I said, gently putting my hand on his shoulder. “I know what I’m getting myself into. I know it can be a little scary for you, since you never went down this path when you were my age. But trust me, I’m gonna be okay.”
I could tell that Dad had to think about it for a moment or two before speaking.
“Well, you know that I will always support you, Son, no matter how noble or ignoble your cause may be.”
“So you’re in? Awesome! I knew I could count on you!” I was reveling in our rare father-son Hallmark Moment.
But that didn’t last long, as Dad, being the pragmatic farmer that he was, quickly switched the focus back to the practicality of the logistics ahead of us.
“Let me make sure I got this straight: you’ll need us to pick up 7 of ’em when we go to store, right?” Dad said, double-checking my request.
For some reason, all of a sudden, that number was seeming a little low.
“Hmmm…on second thought, you’re always saying ‘half-assing things will never get you anywhere in life’. You know what, Dad, we better make that 14 watermelons instead…”
“Wait. What?!?” I spit out several watermelon seeds, trying to wrap my head around what Dad was saying.
“I said that I’m treating the family to a mini-vacation in Cripple Creek right before you head off to college. You’re welcome!”
“Yeah, well, I thought just you and I were going to go camping, so I guess that’s not happening. But besides that, I need you to go back to the part about when we were going to Cripple Creek.”
“Oh, right–August 13th through the 15th. I know it’s only 2 nights, but hey–we’re farmers. It’s a miracle that we’re even taking a vacation, amiright?” Dad said with that sh*t-eating grin of his.
“No, no, no, no, no! This can’t be happening!” I said under my breath as I frantically flipped through the little daily planner I had been using to keep track of The Crazy-Ass Summer of ’99.
“Something wrong?” Dad inquired.
When I finally got to mid-August, I slammed my forefinger down on the square that had ‘5-State Free Fair Watermelon-Eating Contest’ in all-caps and circled thrice.
“This. This is the problem!” I exclaimed pointing at the big ‘1-4’ in the corner of that square. “I’m supposed to be in Liberal on the 14th, you big oaf! I’ve got a hot date with destiny, dammit!”
“Aw, shucks, that’s a shame. Too bad, though, cause those dates are the only ones I can get away from the farm.” Dad didn’t really seem too by bothered by the fate that was befalling me.
That moment when I realized my dreams were being shattered? It felt like a punch straight to the gut–which, incidentally, is also what it felt like to eat half of an oversized watermelon in 90 seconds after dinner. Every day. For 2 weeks straight.
I put down the chunk of watermelon I had been holding.
“I can’t bear the sight of this foul weed no more!” I proclaimed melodramatically as I put a sticky hand to my forehead in true ‘woe-is-me’ fashion.
I slightly-sweet tear3Sweet from all the ----- watermelon juice in my system! trickled down my cheek as I grieved the technique I had perfected, but would never get to use.
But, in the off chance that you, Dear Reader, find yourself training for a watermelon eating contest, I’ll tell you what my method was, and perhaps it won’t all be completely in vain: you see, what I liked to do was crush the watermelon as I chomped off the flesh from each watermelon wedge, usually within 2-3 bites per wedge. Watermelon is actually highly compressible, so if you use your tongue and palate as a garbage compacter, you’ll end up with a surprisingly small amount of mass that needs to be swallowed–in fact, chewing is optional if you do it just right. Of course there’s a lot of watermelon juice expelled into your mouth in the process, but it’s easy enough to drink that as you go. And ta-dah! That’s it! You can tear your way through all the melon your stomach (and/or bladder can handle)!
What else can I say but…
The point of the story is that sometimes one’s potential for greatness is thwarted by the dumbest things. In this case, that ‘dumbest thing’ was my parents’ need to vacation in a town that is 95% casinos, and therefore utterly boring for anyone under 21. If I could go back in time, I would have an intervention with them, because methinks they had a bit of a gambling problem (one that did pay off handsomely in due time, though).
Speaking of going back in time…I’ll let Uncle Rico from Napoleon Dynamite summarize how I feel about being robbed of my greatness:
So, anyways…as we head back-to-school and off-to-college this fall, let’s pause and somberly consider that, statistically speaking, we’re on the cusp of seeing a whole lot of youthful potential go to waste.
Young over-achievers-soon-to-be-under-achievers, we drink this watermelon juice in remembrance of you…
Content created on: 25/26 August 2023 (Fri/Sat)
Footnotes & References:
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