My son attended his first school dance last night. At dinner, I was trying to convince him to skip it because I thought it would be a complete waste of time since we are only two weeks into the school year and what the hell were they thinking scheduling a dance on a school night? Besides, I was in my comfy, bleach stained, not-for-public-eyes lounge wear and didn't want to change, because I'm selfish like that.
Dallas (being the reasonable and kind parent in this house) offered up a compromise which found us dropping Dylan's hormonal pubescent self at the school for an hour of mingling with his peers. As he got out of the car, waved and then pretended we didn't exist, I couldn't help but remember my own experiences with school dances.
I LOVED them. Except for this one.
My first was in sixth grade. I have no recollection of what I wore, which is weird, but I do remember that the gym had been decked out in silver and black balloons with disco strobe lights and gobs of crepe paper streamers.
All of the girls congregated on one side of the gym and the boys, looking distinctly terrified with their clip on ties and fresh haircuts, huddled on the other side. For years, some of those boys had been among my best friends. We had played baseball, hiked through the woods and smoked our first duMaurier cigarettes, stolen from our parents, together. That night, they looked at me differently, like I was someone they didn't know and it was both disconcerting and slightly electrifying. One of them, a boy named Mike, had been my constant companion for nearly four years but the nature of our relationship was evolving as we prepared to enter our teen years. I suddenly became aware that he was a BOY and found myself fretting over clothing choice and how my hair looked, which had never mattered before.
At the dance, he was the first to break rank with the rest of the boys. As casually as could be, he walked over to chat with the girls while his friends looked on in horror. We made eye contact briefly and he smiled. I smiled back, flushed deep red and waved. Then, I felt like a complete tool for waving because it seemed too eager and in a panic, I fled to the boys side of the room to talk with Tej and Greg, who I thought were safe.
"Sail On" by the Commodores came on.
"Wanna dance?" Tej asked.
"With you?" I sputtered. He immediately deflated, like a balloon that had been pricked and I felt horrible so I quickly agreed.
We walked out to the center of the gym, looked at each other, then at the other couples and awkwardly stuck our arms out like two zombies trying to mate. Sweat trickled down the side of his face and I concentrated all my efforts on trying to appear casual, like this dancing with a BOY thing was no big deal. My heart beat furiously in my chest and the song seemed to go on forever. As we jerkily shuffled around in a circle, I glanced to the sidelines and caught Mike staring. He wasn't smiling anymore. Crap.
When the song was over, Tej and I shook hands.
Because we were social goobers.
Then, I made a beeline for Mike and struck up a conversation about something I no longer remember. What I do recall is that while he never did ask me to slow dance that night, he did invite me to the movies with him and his brother that weekend and thus, I viewed the school dance as a complete personal success.
Dylan's first dance turned out to be just as great. He text, "I'm loving it!" midway through and I breathed a sigh of relief. When we picked him up, he was pleased with the experience and enthusiastically chatted about a "mosh pit", which loosely translated into a few boys, testosterone, a bit of roughhousing, a lot of posturing and an adoring female audience.
Some things just never change.
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