Christmas Wrap-Up; Adventures in Designated Driving in New Beginnings

Maybe I’m a grinch or a scrooge, but my favorite part of Christmas is when it ends. Every year since my Mom died, each year my Dad’s mental health seems to get progressively worse. It’s incremental. I can’t neccessarily identify the change from one year to the next. Trying to do so just makes me wonder if the previous year wasn’t so bad, or if time has sort of filtered my memory, mitigating how bad it was. However, comparing him today to himself of five or ten years ago, he’s definitely worse. Namely, it’s the hoarding that worsens.

I wish I knew why he insists on living like that. The young me would have never believed that he would turn into this type of person. He wasn’t an austere father, but he definitely had a “do-what-you’re-supposed-to-do-because-you’re-supposed-to-do-it” mentality. It makes me think of the 6th grade. When I was in 6th grade, I had a problem with two particular bullies. I don’t want to get into the specifics of the situation, but lets just say these two classmates delighted in making my life a living hell. Consequently, my grades suffered…badly, and I received absolutely no empathy from my dad. Not that I think he should have excused my poor performance, but looking I’m amazed he had no interest in adressing the root problem. “Whatever you’re struggling with, it doesn’t matter, do what you’re supposed to do because you’re supposed to do it,” he said. Except, when he’s the one in pain, he believes he’s justified in behaving like he does; trashing his house, living in filth, and doing nothing but listening to his religious programming every day. Staying with him is emotionally exhausting, especially for someone like me who likes his living space to be orderly and clean. At least it makes coming back home a welcome reprieve, even if my Christmas “vacation” is something to be endured.

My dad and I spent Christmas day with my uncle, aunt, and some of their kids and grand children. My youngest cousin, Marla, invited me to her 40th birthday dinner, which was last Monday. I went, though I wonder if I should have. Her parents took her and her guests to this rather nicer restaurant called The Iberian Pig. Actually, it was a chef’s tasting. The food was really good, but I don’t know how all the other guests were able eat for two hours. Half way through the meal, I was ready to go. By the end of the night, I was in physical pain. Not so much from over eating, but my back started hurting from sitting two long. I would guess that’s a part of the aging process, but I was the youngest person there, and everyone else was comfortable to just sit and eat for the entire time. I don’t think I can do that again, even if I appreciate the gesture.

I couldn’t have left early. Since I was the only guest who doesn’t drink, I was the designated driver. One would expect that I’d be used to being the designated driver, but such is not the case. I can only think of one other time I was the DD, and it wasn’t that bad (note: I was also cheuffering college classmates at the time-does it mean anything when drunk college students are more manageable than drunk 30-, 40-, and 70-somethings). It wouldn’t have been so bad, but I wasn’t very familiar with the area. Is it normal for all the drunk passengers to try to serve as the navigator? There were six very tipsy people in the car, and all of them insist they know the best way to get home. I’m glad none of them were driving.

I drove them back to my cousin’s house, where we all initially met, but all of the parking spots were taken. We decided to back my car out since I was about to leave, and park the car we drove to dinner in my spot. The owner of that vehicle insisted she was okay to park. She wasn’t falling over drunk, but she about backed into two cars during the process, including my own car. It was a miracle insurance information wasn’t exchanged. Yeah, that was my bad. Lesson learned. Never, ever, ever, ever trust a drunk person, ever.