I have a problem. It’s something I’ve denied for a long time, but I’m ready to accept it and tell the world: I love telling men I have daddy issues even though I have a great relationship with my dad.
Sometimes this problem of mine manifests itself in trying to “fix” men who try to act like Heath Ledger in 10 Things I Hate About You. Sometimes it manifests itself in calling any man I make eye contact with, “Daddy.” I also tend to fall in love with male professors who have kind eyes.
I knew it was getting bad when I referred to the rottweiler on the Masked Singer as “Daddy” and it turned out to be Chris Daughtry.
The thing is, I don’t need a man to fill a fatherly void in my life. My own dad is great. He enjoys grilling and bird watching like most older white males. He really cares about my well-being and is extremely supportive, but for some reason I crave the drama. I crave the mystery women have when they have daddy issues.
Luckily, I have found a support group. Every week, we meet and review photo presentations of George Clooney and Hugh Grant to allow us to work out our “daddy kinks” so we don’t mess up during the week. Since I have joined the group, we have added Martin Sheen into the mix.
I have a type, okay. Worry about yourself.
Dad, if you’re reading this, please ignore. Do not call me. Do not tell grandma. Do not text me unless it’s a picture of a piece of steak that you think Bobby Flay would like.
Oh…Bobby Flay…that’s one I haven’t considered yet…