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Chris Magyar

Dad Party

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I had an intense dream last night that was plotless and evocative. In it, I was hosting a party in a house, a pretty nice one with hardwood floors. I was wearing a sweater and khaki pants and socks, and I was walking around filling people's wine glasses. I was wearing glasses that were a little too big for my face (this dream happened in a weird third person way where I was watching myself) and I had an exceedingly soft but full mustache. 

There was music playing, maybe Christmas music, and everyone was having a good time. The house was crowded, but not packed. Voices were loud, but not shouting. There was no point to anything but conversation and drink and warmth. Like I said, plotless.

Despite the complete lack of wife and/or child, I feel like this dream was my brain fully embracing dad-hood. Yes, it's a pretty swinging '70s version of dad-hood (probably because I've got a pretty swinging '70s dad), but there was something in the caretaking aspect of moving through the party and refilling wine that felt ... dad-like. I'm not usually that kind of party host. But that kind of party host, well, he will not only make sure everyone is having a blast, he exudes a powerful musk of can-do, like he'll either charm or roundhouse kick any intruder who comes to the door with a crowbar. He'll tell risque jokes that never offend, perform corny party tricks that don't take too much time or attention, and magically always have another bottle of something in the kitchen or the cellar or the garage.

Manhood, done right, appears effortlessly in control. Nice dream, if you can get it.

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