“The only man a girl can depend on is her daddy.” ~ Frenchy in the movie ”Grease”
It took me until I was well into my 30s (and long after my father died), to realize that I was/am a total Daddy’s Girl.
I actually really hate it when grown women call their fathers “Daddy” - feeling that it sort of infantilizes women, and we have quite enough of that in our history and overall culture, thank you very much! But even though, past the age of probably 10, he was “Dad” to me, I don’t mind (now) admitting to being a Daddy’s Girl.
Which at its most basic level I think just means that he was the parent from whom I most sought love and approval.
Even while I was teenage-rebelling against him, his ridiculous (to me, at the time) rules and all his ideas about how I was supposed to live my life, he was still influencing me, I think more than my mother was. Even when I was defining myself against him, he was still always somehow my gauge, and maybe that is why I feel like I am more like him than I am like my mom.
He and I both got Masters degrees, but not PhDs, wanted to be intellectuals, or at least academics, but settled for the stability of more traditional business-y careers. I sometimes stand just like he often did, as captured in this photo, with “arms akimbo” without even realizing it (my husband helpfully points it out).
He and I both frustrated writers, big readers, and both runners.
My Dad started running sometime in the early 80s when the sport was still sort of new, but he had run track in high school and maybe even college, not totally sure, but this photo is probably from high school, I am guessing.
I was joining him on his runs by early high school, as the best way to stay in soccer shape. Long before all the technology we have now, he mapped out his different distance routes by speedometer and tracked his runs with a digital watch and his annual Running Journal that we kids bought for him every Christmas.
There were a lot of runs in the cold wet Seattle weather that I don’t remember too vividly and we did a few races together also, like Beat the Bridge 8k, which apparently turned 40 years old last May, and the Torchlight Parade 10k, part of the annual Seafair in late July.
But what I remember more than anything is the conversations we had on our runs, and the closeness I felt, especially after I got out from under his roof and his rules and we got to enjoy each other more, almost like friends. I remember we talked a lot about politics, running together when I was home from college on breaks, and my women’s studies courses and what we were reading.
And so I thought of him this morning as I got up at 5:30am and traveled down to beautiful Fort Desoto to participate in my first race of the Florida running season; it was a long sloooooow 15k at around 11 minutes per mile. Sadly, I was almost 2 minutes slower than my prior 15k last December, which was a speedy (for me) 9:17 pace. Still, I had a great time and am excited for all my other upcoming races!
Dad backed off running and got into cycling in his early 50s, either because he was having knee/other joint problems or he was worried about having them. I think about him as I enter my 50s and seemingly start to slow down myself, frustrated by an issue with my left hip flexor/glute/hamstring that no amount of yoga, massage, and chiropractor treatments is yet resolving. Maybe he was onto something taking up cycling!
Had he lived, he would have been 80 years old last Saturday Sept.17th; approaching that milestone birthday, my siblings and I have commented more than once that we just can’t picture him as an 80 year old. He was still so virile and energetic at the time of his accidental death that it’s hard to imagine him becoming an old man.
He will always be, tragically, 53 years old to me and I will always be his Girl.
