Groan up

by RAF KATIGBAK

Someone took a look at my laptop the other day and gently proclaimed, “Wow, you’re like, a full-blown man.” Of course, I had the normal reaction that anyone would to such a statement: I promptly packed up my belongings and ran screaming into the street.

While they were probably only complimenting me about how organized my desktop was, for some reason I blew a gasket. One reason is that, usually, the only time I hear people use the term “full-blown” is when they’re talking about something morbid and terminal like AIDS, or when gay friends recount what they did in the bushes of Parc Lafontaine on the weekend (as opposed to getting half-blown, I guess).

But I also shut down and go into panic mode every time I face the looming inevitability of adulthood. I freak out because the thought of being a grown man gives me a trouser full of Glosettes.

There are some people who can’t wait to grow up. I remember having a crush on Francesca Mindoro in elementary school. We would hang out after school and she would talk about having babies and getting a car and buying a house. Of course, I agreed. “Yeah! It would be great to buy a car and, ummm…a house. And we could have like, umm stuff in the house.”

But I didn’t believe it. I just wanted her to be my girlfriend and maybe get to do some banding (that’s the adolescent pre-first base manoeuvre when you run your finger between a girl’s waist and the band of her underwear. It sounds rather innocent now but trust me, for a nerdy kid, it’s as excitingly taboo as getting reamed up the cake). The truth is that I never wanted any of those adult things that my peers wanted.

Lately, for some cruel reason, adulthood and responsibility has been slapping me in the face like that Greek woman I hire at the Erotic Nursery. Just last weekend, I was the best man at my friends’ wedding. Well, I was one of three “best men,” so I guess technically I wasn’t THE best. I was in the top three. Anyway, the beauty of the ceremony and my general good vibe-ness towards the couple was tinged with a feeling of dread, a dread of what I am supposed to do. What I will one day perhaps be expected to do.

“I can’t do this,” I uttered to myself, “I can’t get married. For God’s sake, I ride a 14-year-old girl’s scooter and get excited about going to a Japanese cartoon dress-up convention. I have my own home karaoke set-up and my idea of ambition is mastering my skills on Rock Band.” (Btw, I can do most songs on “Hard,” despite my hand cramping up like Michael J. Fox when I play “Run to the Hills.”) I asked myself, “How can a guy who’s got an inordinate amount of Cheetos particles lodged in his keyboard ever be ready for something as huge and mature sounding as getting married?”

And kids? Forget about it. Sure I love kids. I mean, not in that pervy trenchcoat-wearing-hanging-around-playgrounds-sniffing-bicycle-seats way. More in the fills-me-with-the-overwhelming-miraculous-power-of-nature, and they’re-so-cute-I-wanna-squeeze-them-until-their-eyes-pop-out kinda way.

But having a kid is a frightening prospect. Of course there’re a million questions that need to be answered before one decides to have a child. The main one for me is, “Is a man who prefers to wipe his hands on his socks instead of getting up for a fresh napkin really ready to care for a miniature human?” I guess the answer is, “Who the fuck knows, you just do it,” and “At least I’ll have a bunch of little socks to wipe my hands on now.”

I’m sure that, faced with the challenge, I’d be a great father. Okay, maybe I wouldn’t be a great father, but I would totally have fun with it. I would dress it up so hilariously that it’d be completely embarrassing. Partially for shits and giggles, but also as insurance for later on, so, when they inevitably resent me and tell me they “hate me” and wish I “was dead,” I can at least yell, “At least I wasn’t paraded around town with a reverse orange mohawk like a miniature version of that douchebag from the Prodigy.”

Another thing I know is that my baby would be reeeeeeally cute. Have you ever seen an ugly Asian baby? Didn’t think so. Asian babies are guaranteed adorable. But even then, I think mixed race babies are the best. Not because it’s actually good for our genes that we mix shit up a bit, but it’s because it’s a total crapshoot. I mean, you could end up with a devastating supermodel with all these awesome features from each parent, or you could get like this weird hybrid thing that would also be really fascinating to look at. In fact, I’d like to procreate with a sampling of Canada’s cultural mosaic, just to see how the little fuckers turn out. That’s pretty responsible right?

Riff-Raff@sympatico.ca