“Wow, Siddharth! Is that your dad? How old is he?”
“He’s about to touch 50.”
“Shut Up!!! No way! He doesn’t look a day over 35!”
If I had a dollar every time I had a conversation similar to this, I’d tell my dad not to worry about my trimester fees. But it’s honestly frustrating. Every time someone brings up my dad, it’s always about how fit he is, how cool he is, how young he looks, and then they look at me and wonder where the genetics have gone. Since last summer, my dad has been going through a phase that I like to term “The Summer My Dad Turned Pretty”. It’s a very simple routine he follows (which, now, my mom follows as well). Wake up, go to the gym, come back, protein shake, work, protein shake, chicken breast, protein shake with ice cream, ten thousand steps by night. That’s it. I agree, this is easier said than done. But you have to understand something: my dad was my first competition. Ever since I was a kid, I would compare myself to him. “If Nanna (dad in Telugu) can go out with his friends and come back whenever, why can’t I play for five more minutes?” is something a 7-year-old Siddharth would constantly complain about to his mom. Although situations have changed since, my dad’s friends come over now, so that throws my argument out the door; the competition is still very much present.Â
My dad and I are the same height, so when people mistake him for me, I’m never sure whether it means I look old or that he looks suspiciously young. Almost as if I am both 19 and 49 at the same time until you look closer (Schrodinger’s Age). Like I said, my father’s routine is very simple, and it is a rhythmic assault on my self-esteem. During the summers, I wake up around 11. My dad? Already back from the gym and blasting the FM radio throughout the house. At night? I’m busy trying to pick which movie to watch or doomscrolling on Instagram. My dad? “Yeah, Siddu, I’m just on a walk…have to clock in my 15 thousand steps”.
I believe he is embracing the “Hey! Look at me! You’d mistake me for my son’s brother!” phase of his life. And honestly, fair play to him. But the thing that hits me hardest…is his Instagram account. Gym selfies, abs, biceps, protein shakes, workout videos, breakfast updates, everything. My mom has started to joke that she learns more about my dad’s life from his Instagram stories than from actually living with him. But you must be thinking, let a man post whatever he wants, why are you so salty? For starters, all my friends follow him, so every post or story he puts up, I’m met with a disappointed look from them.
“Look at your dad! Why don’t you hit the gym as well?”
Even the girls I like follow him. And let me put my ego outside the door and tell you, if the competition is between my dad and me, the winner is clear. One of them has a loving wife, and the other is worried about his CGPA.Â
But the suffering didn’t end there. My mom is in on it now. The same routine, once exclusive to my dad, has been quietly adopted by my mother. The house now runs on protein shakes and discipline. Dinner is chicken breast, vegetables, 60 grams of rice, and oats. Every day feels like we’re one spreadsheet away from being sponsored by a fitness app. Anything else is spoken about in the past tense. My mom was reminiscing the other day about the last time mutton appeared on the dinner table, the way people talk about extinct species. I fear for my brother. The poor guy is too young to cook for himself and has to grow up in a house where everyone keeps reminding him how young his dad looks. I’m convinced my dad has seen The Curious Case of Benjamin Button and decided to age in reverse, just to make his son feel old in the process.
I don’t hate that my dad is on a self-improvement journey. I hate that it’s made my lack of discipline painfully visible. My close friends remarked the other day about how my dad has rock-hard abs while I have a dad bod. I was offended. I said, Please don’t call it a dad bod. Call it a father figure.Â