Today, I will be taking you through a guided meditation. Breathe in, paying close attention to the sounds of suburban Australia, family Christmas edition. Now, breathe out. This meditation is focusing on you becoming a Bad Dad. We will travel with the patriarchy into Christmas Day. You will shed the woman in the kitchen. Feel her leave your body, starting from your toes, all the way to the crown of your head. Breathe deep and taste the benefits of being the dad with the cold beer.
Visualise yourself set up in the sun. Beside you is a blue and white esky crammed with as much beer as possible topped with ice from the local servo. Above you, there is a striped beach umbrella, fixed to your seat with cable ties to keep you from roasting. Take note of the smaller details surrounding you, like the cheese platter at a close distance. Now, think fuck the cheese platter, fuck any sort of food. Allow yourself the freedom of letting someone else take care of such issues. Feel the power of knowing how they will spend time worrying about you sculling beers. They are frustrated but you let that bounce off your bloated beer belly. You do not care for the food they have meticulously prepared.
Take some dexy’s offered to you from another Bad Dad. Feel the release that comes from a lack of responsibility. There will be another Bad Dad joining you both soon. This Bad Dad will come with Christmas party favours. Breathe in. It is not the shit kind found in a bonbon. There is no riddle here. Breathe out. It is a little white bag. Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow. Listen to FIDLAR. Listen to Amyl and the Sniffers. Sing songs about being an alcoholic on a downward spiral. Christmas is now a fucking bender.
You hear a call from elsewhere, the food is ready. You do not immediately answer, and the responsible ones are confused. Notice the charred feeling that lingers on your lungs. You have been chain smoking. Notice the sloshing of your stomach as you work your way through the case of cold beer in the melting ice. You are full of synthesised adrenaline, and you still do not need food. Food is no longer on the menu. Tell your partner to cut up the salad. Don’t wait for us, we aren’t hungry, you say whilst slurring a little. Feel the way your tongue struggles to talk and the depth of your voice. Thwart Nanna’s rude comments and keep drinking. She will be off to bed soon anyway, and you will no longer be burdened by the bitch. Bounce on the trampoline, have water bomb fights, and feed the kids chocolate and lollies. If you find yourself thinking they ate real food at some point, right? Remember the mantra: Fuck it. You are not allowed to care. Today you are the fun one. Blur societal boundaries around polite conversation. Start talking about a threesome between your partner and best friend. Talk about how you would want to watch. Nah, fuck that, you just want it to happen. Make them feel uncomfortable, you are a Bad Dad after all.
If at this point you are beginning to feel the patriarchy prickle, picture yourself dipping back into feminine norms. Connect with them as your mind’s eye creates a scene. Perhaps you are doing your best friend’s make-up. Perhaps you are braiding their hair. Be creative. Being a Bad Dad will take its toll on you. You might fear the commitment of being a Bad Dad, maybe you will not be able to step away from this Bad Dad role once Boxing Day comes. Envision yourself taking cute photos of them and telling them they are fucking beautiful. Tell everyone that you love them. Tell them this family is the best you could imagine. Do not forget to breathe. Slowly, now. Inhale, hold, and exhale. See yourself grabbing another beer.
Suddenly, you realise the beers are getting critically low. A Bad Dad cannot exist without a beer in hand. Send the most sober person out to drive around for forty minutes finding an open bottlo on Christmas Day. There is none, of course, you fuck. Get stuck into the no-booze beers. The Heaps Normals. You do not feel heaps normal at all. You feel transcendent. The no-booze beer tastes like real beer. Feel the satisfaction trickle down your spine. It is enough to get you through. You are now down to the last two real beers. You and your best friend claim them. Neither of you really need them. The time has come to reflect upon your life and discuss the feelings you would normally suppress; the feminine norms are long gone. You do not know if you are drunk, but you know you are definitely not sober.
Now imagine you have run out of beers. The sunshine from 12:00 PM becomes hazy 12:00 AM as if to spite your rumbling and churning stomach that you can abruptly feel. Your best friend makes you a plate from the forgotten lunch dinner and it tastes better than you can imagine. Scoff down the food while the responsible ones look at you like an animal at a zoo. You are ready to go home with a warm belly, buzzed from the day’s activities. Make sure you steal a couple of Ferrero Rochers for the drive home. They were not your gift but affirm to yourself that you are the Bad Dad. In the car home, you are alert but barely conscious, so you search Spotify for some sad songs. Sing along to Jeff Buckley. By now you should be able to feel that your Bad Dad is on autopilot. Rip open those little chocolate delights, let the smooth voice of Jeff lull your fried brain into a hum of sleep. Your sober partner gets you home safe. Breathe in once more, and on the exhale release every part of femininity you have ever known. You are now in your bed. You fall asleep knowing full well that you are, the perfect Bad Dad.
Caitlin is the editor of this here newsletter. You can find more about her here.