It’s the most terrifying thing you’ll ever do.
For real this time.
Because this time, you’re not meeting her mother.
No, Romeo; you’re meeting her Daddy.
Here’s how to survive.
First of all, realize that, yes, it’s Daddy. Not ‘Father,’ not ‘Sir (–well, to you, he’s sir, but to her–)
Yeah.
Daddy.
Which means she’s Daddy’s Little Girl—which means you’re the guy who’s taking her away.
Which means you’re the bad guy.
Fellas, this is okay—just remember, when you’re shaking his hand (and trying to shake it as hard as he is–) and when you’re trying to look him in the eyes (–because you know he’s looking into yours–) that, someday, you’re going to have a daughter of your own.
And that someday, some jackass is going to take her away from you.
All of a sudden, (–probably as he’s crushing your hand—) you can see where the big guy is coming from.
This has nothing to do with age, either—whether you’re fifteen or thirty-five (and, hopefully, she’s in the ballpark; otherwise, you’re screwed) any Dad worth his salt will react to meeting you the exact same way.
Call it ‘guarded optimism;’ sure, right now, (–as you’re trying to regain the feeling in your fingers–) the look on his face says ‘I’m gonna kill you.’
Trust me, deep down, he’s hoping you’re the guy who’s gonna treat her right.
(You can’t blame him if ‘The-guy-who-made-her-cry-senior-year’ and ‘The-guy-who-left-her-in-a-bodega-in-Mexico’ are flashing across his subconscious as you tell him you’ve only got the best intentions for his baby.)
Remember this, and you’re halfway home.
Now, let’s say you’re invited into the living room (–or the corner booth at Daddy’s Little Girl’s favorite restaurant–) to formally introduce yourself. This is the ‘job interview’ portion of the meeting; and there are definitely some topics you want to discuss—and some you want to avoid.
-Playing ‘Johnny-Big-Wheel’=murder.
No, it doesn’t matter that you make 60k a year, and that you’re investment portfolio is ‘promising.’
He’s her father.
This means he makes more than you. And if, by some miracle, he doesn’t—you damn well better pretend he does.
-Reminiscing about your glory days means you don’t have any left. Sure, you were All-State back in the day. While I can appreciate the attempt to butter him up with sports stories, the only words to come out of your (probably-unworthy) mouth are better suited for praising Daddy’s Little Girl.
-On the topic of sports: if his favorite team comes up in conversation, you damn well better admit that you like Said Team.
Even if Said Team sucks.
Even if Said Team are your team’s division rivals, and even if admitting you like Said Team kills you a little inside.
He’s her father.
He could kill you, more than a little, and more than inside.
(*The exception to this, of course, is if said team is the Indianapolis Colts. They suck so hard, they’re beyond defending.)
Make no mistake about it; meeting her father is like going to war. Only, (hopefully,) without the wanton destruction and needless atrocities.
The best way to come out alive (–because, as in war, nobody comes out unscathed–) is to bow your admittedly unworthy head, acquiesce to his superiority, and admit that, despite the Colts, you have one thing in common.
You both love Daddy’s Little Girl.
It won’t win you the war—but, if you really mean it—you may live to fight another day.
