The Circle of Types

I received some bad news recently.

Apparently, without realizing it, I turned into a type.

Me! A type!

Me, a guy who has spent his entire life trying not to be a type. Why, when I was in college, in order to not be a type, I rebelliously grew my hair long and wore blue jeans and plaid flannel shirts.

Just like all of the other college kids I knew who were trying not to be to a type.

OK, maybe that’s not such a good example.

But my point is I’ve always tried to be different. I’ve tried to avoid being a type.

In my late 20s, while most of my friends were working, making money and starting families, I opted to work in broadcasting.

It’s pretty hard to make money and start a family working in broadcasting.

But now I’m a type.

At least according to Hannah, one of our 21-year-old daughter Emma’s college roommates.

The other day, my wife, Emma and I drove up to Lawrence, Kansas to help Emma move into the house she’ll be living in for her senior year of college at the University of Kansas.

Well, it wasn’t just the three of us. Along for the ride were two carloads of stuff. By the way, when referring to a college-kid’s possessions, the correct word is “stuff”.

When I was in college, the “stuff” I took to college easily fit in the backseat of my 1967 Chevy Impala.

Emma’s “stuff” didn’t easily fit into a semi-large SUV and a roomy sedan.

Emma and I come at “stuff” from different directions, is what I’m saying.

Anyway, after spending roughly eight hours helping Emma unload the “stuff” from our cars and put it in her house, we invited Hannah to join us for dinner at a Jefferson’s, a great place on Massachusetts Street that serves cold Budweiser.

And oysters.

I like Lawrence and I like most of the restaurants along Massachusetts Street. But some of the restaurants on Massachusetts Street tend to be a little too proud of their “craft” beers.

I don’t have anything against “craft” beers other than the fact that I think most of them taste like dirt. But beyond that I’m fine with “craft” beers.

Making things worse is that some of the restaurants on Massachusetts Street are so proud of their “craft” beers they turn their collective noises down on beers like Budweiser. And when I say “turn their collective noises on beers like Budweiser” I mean they don’t carry them.

I don’t like that.

So, after spending roughly 12 hours unloading Emma’s “stuff” from our car and into her house, we went to Jefferson’s so I could get on the outside of a cold Budweiser.

And oysters.

Have you ever spent roughly 18 hours unloading a college student’s “stuff” out of two cars and into a house?

If you did you would want to get on the outside of a cold Budweiser too.

I suppose the oysters could be optional.

After ordering our food, my wife, Emma, Hannah and I chatted for a while. Well, that’s not completely true. My wife, Emma and Hannah chatted. I mainly watched the replay of an NFL exhibition game on one of the some 27 big-screen TVs in Jefferson’s.

At one point, during the chatting, Hannah, in response to a question from my wife, described the appearance of a guy they had been talking about.

I don’t exactly hang on every word when other people chat. But I did hear every word of Hannah’s response to my wife’s question.

“Oh, you know,” Hannah said. “He looks like a dad.”

Then, Hannah went on to describe the guy in question. Her description did not remotely match a description of me. But as I now understand it that doesn’t matter.

Dads, according to Hannah, look like dads.

“Dads are a type?” I asked.

“Yes,” Hannah and Emma said.

“Am I a type?” I asked.

“Yes,” Emma said.

“Did you know this?” I asked my wife.

“Yes,” my wife said.

The thing is I don’t think I’m a dad type. I don’t dress like a dad. I don’t talk like a dad and I don’t act like a dad.

Granted, I wear a lot of Tommy Bahama clothes. I listen to Jimmy Buffett music. I think craft beers taste like dirt and I sometimes start sentences with the words “Why, when I was in college…”.

Oh my God, I’m a type.

It’s doesn’t seem fair. One minute you’re driving your ’67 Chevy Impala with a back seat of stuff and the next you’re a type. I mean, talk about your circle of life.

The heck with it. I’m breaking the circle. I’m letting my hair grow and pulling out the blue jeans and flannel shirts. But I’m keeping the Jimmy Buffett music.

And the Budweiser.