"You are going to be my project the next few weeks," my father told me this afternoon as I was taking my medications over at his house. "We're getting your mind straight and now we are going to work on your appearance."
"Oh, shit," I thought. This was going to be another of my father's grandiose plans to reinvent Andrew.
"Tomorrow, I want you to go get your hair cut and styled," he said, handing me forty dollars. "After that, I want you to start jogging with me every night."
"I have my job," I protested. "George's mom is paying me to drive him around every night."
I didn't mention the George drinking part.
"Why can't he drive?" my father then asked, much to my chagrin.
"He has a drinking problem like me and we don't want him to get another DUI."
"I never did like you hanging around that George," my father then said.
If it were up to my father, he would actually go so far as to pick my friends for me – no doubt, the boringly middle class automatons from his circle of friends.
"I want you to start dressing up everyday," he then said. "Take pride in yourself and your appearance for a change. Quit wearing those old t-shirts and blue jean shorts and for god sakes go buy you some new tennis shoes."
I was growing frustrated with this conversation. I hate "dressing up." My father can be such a busy body.
"I also want you to go down to the eye doctor and get some new contacts that you can wear. I will pay for them. You look better without glasses. I will get your mother to make an appointment."
Like I said, dad was trying to reinvent me. I had the choice of acting surly and non-cooperative or giving in and bowing down to my father's wishes. It is best not to make waves I decided. My father is one of the most headstrong and stubborn old goats I have ever encountered and I just didn't have the will nor the fortitude to contest him and his plans for me.
"Dad has put me on his reinvent Andrew plan," I told Rosa later on the phone.
"I get tired of how your father treats you," she replied. "You are thirty five fucking years old!"
"He means well," I said. "He just wants me to be upper middle class acceptable."
"Putting on airs you mean," Rosa replied.
"Yes, putting on airs."