My son asked that I chauffeur him, and a friend of his, to his first high school dance last night, in our land boat. I offered to stop at a costume rental place and pick up a suitable uniform for myself, but he, sensing that I wasn't being serious, let me off the hook. I deliver every offer and every comment to him, no matter how ridiculous, deadpan -- then leave it to him to sort out whether I am pulling his leg or not. It's becoming more and more difficult to trick him. He claims that he has been on to me, and suspicious of everything I say, since I convinced him at some tender age (four or five) that if there was a Wal-Mart there must also be a Ceiling-Mart and a Floor-Mart.
So, I dropped off the boys, drove around a bit, then went home and waited. School dances aren't what they used to be. In your day, do you remember the gymnasium doors being locked early so that undesirables couldn't crash the event and cause trouble? Were there breathalyzers at the door to make sure fourteen and fifteen year-olds weren't drunk when they arrived? How about pit bulls and armed goons? Okay, so I'm kidding about that last one, at least at my son's school. The fact remains that the age of innocence is over.
At 10:15, I got the call asking me to pick up the boys. The lights were being turned up and the kids were being turned out. The dance was over.
Did the lads have fun? Seemingly. Did my son dance with any girls? Yes, about ten or so, according to him. Who asked whom? He asked some, some asked him. Was he telling the truth? Yes, according to his friend.
Boy, I wonder what lies ahead.