My Father The Possesive Demi God

Okay, so grab your lattes, because you're about to hear a story. It starts like any other – a kid, a dad, some questionable fashion choices in the 80s… but then it takes a hard left turn into the land of, well, demi-god-ish-ness. See, my dad? He’s… complicated. Let's just say he has a slight control problem. Like, thinks-he-owns-the-sun-and-moon-and-possibly-your-soul kind of control problem.

Now, I’m not saying he literally thinks he owns the sun. Though, I wouldn’t put it past him to try and trademark it. But the possessiveness? Oh boy, that's real. Imagine that friend who gets jealous when you talk to anyone else. Now amplify that by, like, a thousand. And throw in a dash of ancient power – or what feels like it, anyway.

Exhibit A: The Car

The first sign should have been the car. It wasn’t just a car, you understand. It was his car. A vintage Mustang, cherry red, that he polished religiously. And God forbid (no pun intended) anyone else even looked at it. One time, a bird dared to, you know, bird, on the hood. The look on his face? I thought the sky was going to crack open and swallow us whole. He spent three hours detailing it afterwards, muttering about avian insolence.

You might be thinking, "Okay, maybe he just loves his car." And sure, maybe. But then there were the dates. Oh, the dates.

Exhibit B: The Dates (Or Lack Thereof)

Dating in high school was… an experience. Trying to explain to a guy why my dad insisted on interviewing him on the porch before we left was always a conversation starter. A terrifying one. He’d ask them questions like, “What are your intentions?” (fair enough), “What are your views on the socio-political ramifications of the Peloponnesian War?” (wait, what?), and “Do you believe you are worthy of my daughter's presence?” (…abort, abort!).

Let's just say I didn’t have a ton of second dates. Although, one guy did bring him a signed first edition of Thucydides' History of the Peloponnesian War to try and score points. Points for effort, I guess. He still didn’t get past curfew. My dad has a sixth sense for curfew violations.

Here's a surprising fact: Did you know that the average person checks their phone 344 times a day? My dad probably checks on me, psychically, at least that many times. I'm kidding… mostly.

The 'Demi-God' Part

Okay, so maybe “demi-god” is a slight exaggeration. He’s not throwing lightning bolts (that I know of), and he hasn’t, like, parted any seas lately. But there’s a certain… aura about him. He's unnaturally strong for his age, knows things he shouldn't, and has this way of looking at you that makes you feel like he can see right through your soul. It’s unnerving.

My theory? Maybe he's a descendant of some long-forgotten Greek god of… overprotective parenting. Or maybe he just watched way too much Hercules as a kid. Either way, the possessiveness is legendary.

Living With It

So, how do I deal with a dad who acts like he owns the world (and me, apparently)? Humor. Lots and lots of humor. And strategic lying. And a very, very patient therapist.

I've also learned to embrace the absurdity of it all. I mean, how many people can say their dad once threatened to turn a vacuum cleaner salesman into a newt for flirting with their mom? (Okay, he didn't actually turn him into a newt, but the threat was definitely there.)

Ultimately, underneath all the possessiveness, I know he loves me. In a totally overwhelming, slightly terrifying, bordering-on-mythological kind of way. And hey, at least I've got some great stories to tell. Just, uh, don’t tell him I told you. He might unleash the fury of a thousand suns. Or, you know, just ground me until I'm 40. It’s hard to tell with him.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I think I feel a psychic ping. Gotta go. He probably wants to know what I had for lunch. Or maybe he wants to know if I've been writing about him… Wish me luck!