DAZE WORK: Un-becoming your parents can throw you a curveball

Winter weather, the Covid calamity and an excess of football, it seems, have combined to turn us all into couch potatoes.

And in watching all that TV, one thing seems to stand out -- everything other commercial seems to be for an insurance company.

And most of them are getting on my nerves. Limu the Emu and Doug are idiotic. And I’m sick of Flo and Jamie and their Progressive pals. Even Jake from State Farm has outlived his usefulness in his antics with Chris Paul and Aaron Rodgers.

If Rodgers had been looking for Jake from State Farm in the end zone in the final minutes of the NFC championship game, maybe he’d be playing in the Super Bowl this Sunday.

Geico has continued with some creative ad bits. I enjoy the play on words in the clogging ad, we’ve got rats or we’ve got aunts, the neighbors’ fencing issue, the pipes are making strange noises and yes, scoop, there it is.

But the one that strikes a chord is the “Un-becoming your parents” Progressive ad series with instructor Dr. Rick and his “parentology” lessons.

Some of us have been battling this becoming-our-parents thing for a while. And it’s not all about silencing your phone, having too many throw pillows or pointing out guys with blue hair in the hardware store. Or even having homey signs saying, “No fussin’ and no cussin’.”

For me it happens every time I plop down into my recliner in front of the TV and get enveloped by the blanket I keep handy.

It immediately sends me back to my home in the Chicago suburbs and waiting on Dad to come home from work to play a little catch on the asphalt driveway. He was a pretty good sport, crouching down in front of the garage door in dress pants, tie and dress shoes to catch my errant throws as I tried to perfect the art of pitching.

Many days, though, whether it was one too many curveballs careening off the asphalt into his shins or just the rigors of running the personnel department at a busy factory, he would immediately head for the padded rocker in the near corner of the living room. It wasn’t even a good vantage point to watch TV as it would catch the cold draft coming down the staircase from the second floor. It never mattered.

When he plopped down in that rocker, he was gone in 60 seconds. Out like a light. Snoring until Mom would come to tell us dinner was ready.

Never did I understand how he could just fall asleep like that. His factory job was literally a five-minute drive away. So when he got off at 5, he was almost always home by 5:15, allowing time for after-work chitchat and traffic on Roosevelt Road.

So by 5:15, he was sawing logs.

Well, now I know, because I do it about every other day. I’ll come home from work or from a meeting, sit down and suddenly there are 40 minutes of time missing from my memory.

Recently I’ve realized I am probably as old -- older really -- than my father was back then. Scary thought.

It’s funny, because as I write this, my sister is sending off a story about our Mom to the Chicken Soup for the Soul folks.

Aging is no fun, believe you me. I walk with a cane most times now, thanks to a bum left knee. I groan when I sit down. And yes, I frequently fall asleep in front of the TV.

But am I becoming my father? I don’t think so ... I hope not ... I haven’t found any bruises on my shins.