nautideux

. And it was funny really, because at these dinners, every time my dad would reach for his glass or spoon or even the salt, I found myself, after a while, I admit, unable to not drop my fork or spoon on my plate and shoot a hand up over my face, in a feeble type of protective measure and assume this strange type of awkward defensive stance. Every time. Without fail, every time my dear old father, who, in reality, looking back, was no he-man himself, if you want to know the truth, still in his awful navy blue work uniform and serial killerr-type shoes, reached or inhaled or shrugged or twitched or even looked like he was about to move at all in some way, I would drop my spoon or fork and kind of try to cover and protect my face. If you blinked or looked away for even a second, you would have missed my arms, shooting up and trying to cover my face and head. I honestly got that good and fast and could, without any hesitation or thought or anything, drop my spoon and throw my hand and arms up in front of my face. I mean, I had plenty of practice, sure, but you really would have still been amazed how fucking quick I was. You had to be impressed. I know you couldnt help but to be impressed and just awestruck, honestly, with how quickly I would, without even apparently thinking about it, shoot my arms and hands up. It was like a reflex. If you saw it happen, it would appear as natural as blinking your eyes or breathing. If he shifted in his chair, boom!, my hands were up. My brother, forget it, he was way too slow. He wasnt even close to my speed. If you werent really paying attention, and were just sitting there with us at that crappy little kitchen table, staring into space or trying to daydream or something and you heard my fork fall onto my plate or bowl, by the time you could even turn your head, my fucking arms were up and my hands were over my head. My brother was way, way too slow. You think he would have improved over the course of countless dinners, but he never did. And when my dad wasnt just reaching or shifting his fucking fat ass in his seat, when he really was actually trying to connect, my brother just never developed the sharpness and the quickness and the reflexes to get his fucking damn hands and arms up and at least have a chance to try to deflect it. That first try anyway. But man I was pretty quick. I used to be so proud of my reflexes and ability to block that first, seemingly unexpected sucker punch of a blow, that I would kind of stand in front of the bathroom mirror with the door closed and the water in the sink running, and practice in a way, getting my arms up. Like if I knew my parents were involved in a T.V. show and werent likely to barge in on me, I would practice for a while. I was proud. I was honestly pretty proud. Admittedly, I was reaching, but it was something that made me feel in a way good about myself. A very little something, I agree, but still. I was pretty fucking quick. Anyone would have had to admit at least THAT. Anyone.