More than a decade ago, my father made an unusual decision. I’d asked to drive to Atlanta (10 hour drive) with my best friend for Spring Break my senior year of college. I usually skipped SB all together. The drinking age, obviously, was 21, and I was 20 when I graduated in college, so in my estimation, there wasn’t much fun to be had. Anyone whose chosen to remain sober when surrounded by drunk people will tell you the same. But it was the final semester, and I’d spent the fall in London and missed my last homecoming as a student. Maybe he took pity on me. Maybe he was delusional. Miraculously, Dad, who I full well expected to say “no”, said “okay.”