Thanks Dad

Marc Passen is the kind of guy you'd just prefer to be around. He's laid back. He smiles all the time. You get a strong sense that he doesn't judge any of the glaringly obvious garbage qualities about yourself. He's really really really ridiculously good looking. You know- that guy. This wonderful man is turning 70 years old on Friday, Jan. 31. You wouldn't know it. He gets up every day and does pilates-like stretches before he gets on his bike and rides for something like a million miles. If it's one of his favorite days, he gets out on the tennis court and kicks some younger guy butt. Often, there's a post-butt-kicking cool down swim at the JCC. This diligent athletic routine has given him the youthful glow of a man approaching maybe barely not even 50. Before you collapse out of frustrated jealousy of Marc, know that he hasn't had it all easy. He had to raise two over-dramatic, loud redheaded girls. That's us. Hi. I, Natalie, the oldest, was the worst kind of wretched rebel teenager. Teresa, my younger sister, was much more pleasant to be around when she wasn't performing one-man-shows of "High School Musical" at the dinner table. For years, Dad couldn't eat a cookie. He bought them. Hid them. We found them. Ate them. There was nowhere safe for his secret chocolate stash. He was outnumbered. Me, Teresa, Mom and even our dog, Zoe made up a female force that tested his almost impenetrable fortress of patience. He did lose his cool once. We were 8 and 5. There was a lot of mud in the front yard. Naturally, we shaped some in our hands to look like dog poop and delicately placed it on our front door step. He was so furious that we didn't own up to it for 20 years. Sorry Dad. We cried over stupid things like boys we shouldn't have dated in the first place and homework that we just didn't want to do. Marc, who couldn't relate to a lot of our lady troubles, was and is still there with a kind word and sound advice. Like a lot of dads, Marc Passen is the rock of his family. When our Mom got diagnosed with cancer, he carried us all through it. When each of us moved across states, Dad drove the truck. When we're upset, Dad tells a spectacularly dumb joke that forces a smile, "Hey Chump... uh, I mean, CHAMP!" From all formerly ungrateful daughters to their champion Dads, thank you. We love you. Sorry about the fake dog poop. Natalie Carsten is an inside sales rep and receptionist at the Auburn Journal.