One Eyebrow Doesn't Make You Friends

Yesterday, my father bemoaned his feminization over the last decade due to his constant exposure to me and my sister - his two loving daughters. His role as a single father meant the cannibalization of the maternal role, which resulted in a sort-of heightening of feminine characteristics. (I'm sure Stan Lee has written a comic about this, right?)

Case and point: Last night, my father became aware of an injured robin hopping around our pasture. His features instantly become concerned, as if the robin is his own flesh-and-blood. (No worries, it isn't!)

"I'm going to move it to the tree!" I assume a position of opposition. "That's not a good idea, dad. If the robin has an injured wing, he/she will attempt to fly out of the tree. It will then fall and die." I punctuate my response with a curt, "LEAVE IT ALONE!"

My father agreed, but it was clear that this poor, little bird was going to stay put in his mind. As he walks back from the pasture, dad characterizes his reaction as the result of, "having to raise two daughters. Now, [he] gets all emotional with these types of things."

When I heard him say this, I smiled. I smiled because my middle-school years were a living hell because of my growing up under the watchful eye of my dad - a man! How so? Oh, please let me explain.

Here's a quick list of situations I ran into as a result of my unique and interesting childhood:

I was mocked for having one eyebrow. In eighth grade, I became painfully aware that in order to be seen as "normal," I had to adopt the fashion-forward trend of two eyebrows. Oh, I also had to start wearing pants. (I'm kidding. I always wore pants, or did I? SUSPENSE!)

I didn't know that you had to wear a bra under your gym uniform. Thank you, dad! Scene: We're all in the locker room after gym class changing out of our uniforms. I lift up my shirt, and then I hear the laughter. Needless to say, I've worn a bra ever since.

Your white shirts should NOT have pit stains. In eighth-grade English class, I raised my hand at the chance to read my journal entry. Again, I was met with laughter. A male classmate said, "Hey, Addy. Raise your hand again." This was followed by more condescending snickers (and I'm talking about actual candy bars who were incredibly arrogant in their reactions). So, after a few trips in the washer and a jug of bleach, the armpit regions of my shirts were white... forever.

Farting is funny, except when it's done in a classroom on a metal chair. If that happens - and it did to me - it quickly escalates into a full-blown case of royal embarrassment. In fifth-grade Math, I farted. When I'd fart at home, dad laughed. It was funny then, so why would this be any different? Maybe because it's not cool to fart in school! The whole class was laughing, but they were doing so AT me. That sucked, so now when I fart in public, I blame it on someone else. (We all do it!)

Granny panties aren't cool.I didn't know growing up that there were two types of underwear: sexy underwear and everything else. In middle school, I wore a particularly tight pair of sweatpants. A classmate pointed out that he could see my underwear line, adding, "Your panties are huge!" Further discussion with a good friend of mine introduced me to sexy underwear, but do you want to know one of my deepest-held secret? I still wear granny panties. I'm all about comfort, baby!

A sports bra is NOT the same as a day-to-day bra. That sentence translated for men is, "Chicks can't wear sports bras everyday because some cruel bimbo in the Brazier Era said so!" I actually wore a low-cut shirt that completely exposed my sports bra. I thought it might look like a camisole, but it didn't. After an unpleasant conversation, I never wore a sports bra under a nice shirt again. Thanks, dad!

There shouldn't be hair on your legs, upper lip, and armpits. This was another terrible lesson I was forced to learn in middle school. I wore a pair of athletic shorts (shout out to the now-defunct Gordmans!) to school. It wasn't until I bent down in Band class to get my flute out of my locker that I heard, "Damn, Chewbacca!" from behind me. "What?" I had no idea what traits or life experiences I had in common with the legendary Star Wars character. The boy followed it up with, "Nice legs, Chewy." Luckily, there wasn't a pond nearby for me to drown myself in, but I did have my tears.

I'm not even scratching the surface here, folks. Being raised by a single dad was great, but there were times where I found myself in unfortunate predicaments. I learn everything the hard way. That's just who I am, but some events I learned the hard way were forced upon me due to my utter and complete lack of knowledge.

In conclusion, my dad thinks my sister and I turned him into a chick. Well, after reading this piece, I hope my dad realizes what I went through to become a chick. The road was fraught with brow hairs, pit stains, and unused sticks of deodorant.