My Father’s Daughter

Hubby regularly reminds me, “You are your father’s daughter!”   It seems I have inherited my dad’s knack for getting injured in the most innocent of circumstances.  He will stop by for a visit, and one of the kids will say something like, “Grandpa! Why is there a huge, gaping hole in your head?”

His response is always nonchalant.  “Oh, it’s no big deal.  I was walking through the barn and a beam fell out of nowhere.  When I came to, I found an old rag and bandaged it up.  It stopped bleeding by the next day, and I’ve nearly gained back the sight in my right eye.”

Following in my father’s footsteps, this past weekend, I skinned my knee up pretty good.  Hubby and I spent a long awaited weekend together at a beautiful resort on the shores of Belize.  One of my Belizean girlfriends had told me that I should wear a dress that was “Belize sexy.”  I knew what that meant, so, even though I’m 43, I shopped in the juniors department and bought something a size and a half too small.  It is unlikely that I will ever wear the dress in the U.S., but it was fun to be all sexy and glam for a night in a country where few people know me.  Or at least that was the plan.

To accessorize the dress, I unearthed my never worn, but oh-so-lovely, stilettos from the back of the closet.  In hindsight, I should have taken them for a spin before tucking them into my suitcase.

When hubby and I dressed for dinner, he was totally bowled over by my appearance. I’m actually not sure if he was wowed because he thought I looked great, or by the sheer fact that I was able to shove my 165lb. body into such a tight, halter dress.  Either way, I was gonna work it!

I clung tightly to his hand as we made our way along the path.  Every stone was a different shape and size, separated with sand, so I had a hard time measuring my gait to keep my heels from piercing into the ground.  It was quite dark as we approached the open-air restaurant, so I felt a semblance of hope that the other diners wouldn’t notice I was wobbling around like a newborn giraffe testing his legs for the first time.

With only a few steps to go, and in clear view of everyone, my heel became lodged between the stones.  I fell hard.  My camera crashed to the ground beside me, and a blinding flash alerted the few remaining people who had not already observed my state of disgrace.   In a most unladylike manner, I got on all fours and tried to raise myself up. Meanwhile, hubby “helpfully” cupped his hands into my armpits and commenced to tugging.

I hobbled to our table, brushing the bloody dirt from my legs, and hoping the staff wouldn’t feel compelled to bring out a first aid kit.  Taking a deep breath, I tried to regain my composure by studying the menu.  It was a relief when the other guests realized they’d been staring a little too long, and once again busied themselves with their lobsters and ceviche.

After dinner, I slipped my shoes off and we took a romantic, moonlight limp along the beach.  I noticed individual docks, each with two wooden lounge chairs, floating a short distance from the shore.  I remarked to hubby, “I would love it if we could swim out there tomorrow and relax on those floating chairs!”

He responded, “It sounds nice, but in reality when you climbed out of the water, you would cut yourself on the wood, and then sharks would smell the blood, and you would be screaming and crying, and I would have to single-handedly fend off the sharks. Nothing is ever easy with you.”

And then, on the off-chance that I might overlook my bloody leg and disagree with him, he added, “You are your father’s daughter.”

There’s certainly no arguing with that.