In my short time upon this earth, I've done a fair number of chest-hair inducing things. I've flown planes, both powered and non (gliders), I've ridden and been thrown from horses, shot a fair number of guns, bows, and other missile-type weapons, started fires, been in fist-fights, raced cars, climbed mountains, righted and commandeered a capsized boat, performed home-surgery, replaced a timing belt, run a 10K, and even driven a train.
I watched the birth of my child, have held his vomit, poop, and urine in my hands and gone back to finish a meal. I marshaled his trip to the hospital when he split his brow.
I travelled in foreign countries by myself for a month.
I've had friends and family die from fire, violence, and protracted illness.
I've lived up to some pretty tough challenges. But Harry Chapin ain't one of 'em.
About a year ago, I heard "Cat's in the Cradle" on the radio for probably the 150'th time, but I'd never really listened to the lyrics before. Oh my god. By the end of the song, I was fighting back tears and clutching my child to me.
Now I start sobbing like a little girl by the 3rd verse, and it seems to be getting worse each time I hear it. I'm unable to change the station or just turn the damned radio off, like somehow the song serves as a warning that I must hear in its entirety.
So yeah: I'm a total panty-waist. Damn you Harry Chapin!
1 comment:
Now you know how I feel about that Christmas song with the little orphan girl and her damn injured bird.
Reduces me to a blubbering idiot.
If it makes you feel any better, thanks to Susan and her mix CD, I've had a Celion Dion song in my head today.
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