My Boyfriend Is A Carbon Copy Of My Dad & That’s Exactly Why I Love Him

My boyfriend and I had been together for several months before I realized, dang, he’s kinda exactly like my dad. It might seem weird to be dating a carbon copy of the man who raised me, but here’s why I don’t find it awkward at all:

My boyfriend and my dad have the same silly sense of humor.

My dad was always the one who could make me laugh. I have a sarcastic personality (so being silly has never been my thing), but his goofy way of driving down the road while wearing a princess wig was endearingly funny to me when I was a kid. I didn’t really laugh at the quirky stuff with anyone else until I started dating my boyfriend. No one else’s terrible twerking makes me crack up quite like him. The genuine giggles from my childhood have finally followed me to my dating years and it’s amazing.

They love selfies equally.

My dad, bless his soul, loves selfies- more than any preteen girl ever has. While he’s finding selfies of me and posting them on Facebook (followed by a sappy rant about me), my boyfriend is posting some selfies of us on Instagram- sweet, cheesy captions and all. They know how to make a lady feel beautiful. So, for the first time in forever, I like my face enough to not spend fifteen minutes trying to edit the lighting and angle in a Snapchat. I just send the picture: makeup-less, filter-less and self-conscious-less.

They’re my handymen.

While I’m totally into self-sufficiency, I have to admit that guys have a natural knack for fixing stuff. While Dad puts together that 50,000-pieced trampoline set of mine, my boyfriend patiently pulls apart my car’s hood that I dented when I hit a raccoon. That part of my dad that will stop everything he’s doing just to take care of my pointless requests is inside my boyfriend too.

Emoji fever caught them both.

Let’s be honest: men aren’t really into the whole emoji thing. They might send the occasional laughing face, but they usually stick to straight ABC text. On the flipside, it’s a little different for my dad and my boyfriend. Sometimes, Dad sends a novel-length text to me that’s filled with nothing more than emojis. As for my boyfriend, he loves sending emoji-encrypted texts. Instead of, “Hey, love, could you stop correcting my texts and being a grammar fanatic?”, I just get that face-palming guy. At least they communicate.

My boyfriend and my dad have these warm eyes.

My dad’s eyes are brown, but my boyfriend’s are blue. Still, they both have this welcoming warmth. They don’t look intimidating or glance over you; they simply invite you in. (Also, neither one of them can see worth a damn, but that’s beside the sentimental point I’m trying to make.)

The anti-“Netflix & Chill” mentality runs deep in their veins.

Just to clarify, I don’t make out with my dad. However, he’s never been the kind of man who justifies bonding as sitting on the couch and watching movies. Father/daughter time includes gun-range shooting, bowling, making up songs, etc. The same goes for the boyfriend. He and I are hiking the Grand Canyon and spending a few days in Vegas this summer. Thanks to these two, my life has been one journey after the next.

Spiders don’t scare either of them.

Though I tamper with dangerous midnight jogs down the highway, other phobias of mine will always call for a fearless hero. While Dad spends most of his nights checking nooks and crannies for little eight-legged monsters, my boyfriend spends most of his days protecting me from carnival clowns.

Their protection is on point.

Not that Dad can reroute a tornado or fix medical emergencies, but his big arms have always been there to hold me and help me forget reality. Now that I’m a little older, it’s nice to find another man who can hold me tight and make me lose myself and all of my life crises for a hot second.

My dad and my boyfriend aren’t food critics.

I’m not your ’50s version of Betty Crocker; I’m your Millennial version of “Imma run through the drive thru at Starbucks and Chick-fil-A” lady. Dad got stuck with taking me to the emergency room after I attempted to make poppy seed chicken, and now that I’m on a health kick, my boyfriend is the one who gets stuck eating reduced fat chicken alfredo. Thankfully, neither of them complain.

They’re tattoo twins.

Most dads would freak out if their daughter came home with a boy covered in tattoos, but my dad was dragging me in a tattoo parlor when I turned sixteen. Naturally, I’m now dating a man who loves his ink as well. Since childhood, I’ve understood that tattoos tell stories, and these inked-up, storytelling guys are awesome.

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