The Secret

My Dad used to play golf every weekend in a community tournament, then come home and show me his new swing. Every time he came home, despite how his game had gone that weekend, he had this unmistakable renewed look of hope. That he had finally found “the secret.”

Which is what he used to call his new swing: the secret. As in, “I’ve found the secret.”

And every weekend, just like clockwork, he’d come home with a brand-new secret swing to show me. I’m not sure what to make of myself, but I must’ve been one captive audience. I don’t know if I’d ever have the patience now to listen to someone—much less a family member—every week tell me about his new swing.

Looking back, I realize that telling a kid something like that could result in one major mind fuck. I mean, to a kid, your dad or mom is the original authority figure in your life. For that authority to constantly and consistently change the definitions of the world around you could possibly result in a lack of stability or mental grounding.

Fortunately, my Mom was a rock. As solid as one, and could hurt you physically like one as well. My Dad did his fair share of beating, but my Mom is the one who brought fear to my cheeks, arms and legs with just a gesture she was about to pinch me with her powerful claws.

Oh, that’s right. That would make her a crab. But anyway, she was my rock, while Dad was the water that flowed around it.

I think it’s okay to have parents like that. Seriously. But at some point, you must figure it out. You must reach some epiphany about the world and who taught you its rules.

My epiphany came one day when my Dad threw me to the ground, put his knees on my arms, and slapped the living shit out of me. I don’t remember how many times he hit me, but I think it’s fair to say it was more than enough to convince me not to be his audience member every weekend.

Oh, I should explain that the face beating wasn’t unwarranted. I was being quite a brat that day, but that is all I remember. I hope that I will never reach that level of anger with my kids, but who knows? I’ve never been a father before. At least, not that I know of.

Yesterday, I was hanging out with some friends and I noticed one of them looked a bit heavy in the belly area. I told him I’ve been avoiding wheat products, per the information from my friend’s comments on this site, and that it seemed to be working for me, also. He then looked at the beer I was consuming and I told him I made a couple of exceptions every now and then.

I also mentioned I’ve been eating more yogurt because I was concerned I’m consuming too much yeast via red wines and Belgian ales. Theoretically, the active cultures in the yogurt counteract the potential yeast growth in your body. I don’t know where I got that from, but I think it was a nutrition class in college.

Anyway, the point is—and I know it took a while to reach it—that I realize I’ve become a bit like my Dad. I got theories coming out of my ass like you wouldn’t believe. But like my friend who told me about the wheat diet, I never preached that my nutrition methods would help anyone but me.

Or, at least I think it’s helping me. Stay tuned next week.