Just the other night, I sat at the dinner table—wearing my crazy folding reading glasses—and applying liquid bandage to the very painful cracks in my skin at the corners of my fingernails.
I looked up from what I was doing only to find Evie staring at me from the high chair, smiling her gummy grin at me.
“Daddy, whatcha doing?”
“I’m putting liquid bandage on the boo-boos I have at the end of my fingers,” I responded.
“It looks like you’re painting your nails.”
“Daddy doesn’t do that,” I answered. “Daddy’s not a metrosexual.”
“What’s a metrosexual?” she asked.
“Never mind what a metrosexual is. Forget that Daddy even brought it up.”
“Why are you wearing those silly things on your face?”
“Because,” I responded, relieved that we were past metrosexuals and onto something else, “Daddy can’t see so well anymore. He needs these to see the ouchies.”
“Oh.”
She seemed to mull that over a bit.
Funny looking.
“Daddy, you’re weird!” she declared.
“I know, baby cakes, I know.”
“Daddy?”
“Yes?”
“What’s a metrosexual?”
Considering the fact that this conversation took place inside my head (Evie just turned six months last Monday), I have a feeling that I will be hearing “Daddy, you’re weird!” a lot through the years.
