My daughter Glory is awesome.
She and I were shooting the breeze yesterday when she tossed out this little gem:
“A guy asked me out today.”
“Really? What did you say?”
“I asked him, “Would you be afraid if a guy with a six-pack and muscles the size of bowling balls chased after you?” He said yes. I said, “Then you don’t want to date me.”
Just in case you didn’t connect the dots, I am the fear-factor Glory is referring to. Never mind that I have a diminutive two-pack and my muscles are only the size of tennis balls. It’s the principle of the thing. She can think what she wants, if it helps my cause.
Another little tidbit: She’s twelve years old. Gorgeous, but twelve years old.
She and I have a deal. She can’t date until she’s sixteen, and even then, if a guy wants to go out with her, he’s got to beat me in an arm wrestle. Our motto? “No guts, no Glory.”
“But dad,” she muses. “Then I’ll never date anyone!”
“Don’t worry,” I assure her. “One day, if the right guy comes along, I’ll let him win.”
Lots of dads own shotguns, which is fine. I prefer something a little more… civilized.
I own a sword. It’s fun to play with.