A Toast to My Dad

September 13-an auspicious date in history. Sure, today in 1814 Francis Scott Key, moved by the patriotic sight of the American flag  waving o’er the land while the British bombarded the Maryland fort in the War of 1812, penned the poem that later became “The Star Spangled Banner.”

No offense to Sir Francis OR to my home state, but I think September 13 marks a more significant event: the birth of the man who begat me. Yes, today is my dad’s birthday. I promise to avoid any maudlin sentiments during this post, but I remain unapologetic for gushing about my father, a man worthy of limitless amounts of gush. However, I’ll keep this short.

My dad attracts love. His booming voice, (realistic) optimism, sense of humor, compassion, and respect for all disarms people. I feel proud to stand near him, to hug him, to share half of his genes. He is a man who enjoys doing yoga with his daughter, who freely verbalizes the love and pride he feels for her, and unconditionally supports her aspirations and passions. He is a man who feels so secure in his masculinity that he accompanied his lonely daughter to a zumba class (and danced darn well) when none of her friends were available. He is a man with strong convictions, yet opens his mind to new opinions, practices, and perspectives.

When I think about my father, my chin raises, my eyes smile, and my heart warms. To say that I worhip adore him is a very sad understatement. I feel tempted to burn through my keyboard and tick off every single reason I fancy my dad a hero, an angel on Earth. But I think that words, even an infinite amount of them, would fail to express the depths of my love for him. So I’ll end this now before this logophile smokes her laptop.

My dad rocks. And it’s his birthday.

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