5-20-02, Side Streets, Kimra Traynor Herb
A High School Dance Revisited
By Kimra Traynor Herb
IPS Features
Life, in all of its irony, has a way of just repeating itself. I just came from a junior high school dance. As a chaperone, my duties were: (well, no one actually outlined my duties for me), but I imagined that I was to stand around and ward off mischief or actual danger by my mere parental presence. When I arrived at the junior high school gymnasium, I knew I was in trouble. I was immediately cast back into time; to a day when my green polyester dress did nothing to complement my lackluster and yet strangely curly in all the wrong places hair; my too thick glasses perched on my freckled nose (oh, so uncool) and to the day when all the toilet paper in the world could do nothing to ward off the fact that I simply had not an ounce of womanly figure to view on my stick-like body. Sigh. And it goes without saying that of course the boys tossed me over continually in favor of the curvy Kim Goodwin and the dimpled Chris Powell. So I would sit, on the edge of the bleachers, trying to force a smile and all the time wondering when the torture-fest would end and I could retreat to the safety of my own home. (Yes, of course I had BEGGED to go the dance; but somehow it always turned out this way.)
Now I was back.
Only this time, I was the parent; the chaperone; one of the chicks in charge (COC)
and I had little hope that I would be any better in this facet of the junior
high dance scenario. As the music thumped, I edged my way into the room, taking
note of the wall of girls and the sea of boys- none of whom were dancing, save a
few buxom cheerleader types who were doing choreographed moves together in the
front of the gym. I looked at my son, who was immersed in his crowd of friends,
laughing and joking and seemingly unaware that this was a DANCE and that they
should be afraid; very afraid. After a while of observing the kids, one of the
other chaperones edged her way over to me and asked, "Do you think your son
would be willing to dance with my niece?" Speaking for him in the way that
all mothers have of doing for their children, I replied that she should ask him
but I was sure he would be delighted.
This was
riveting. He nodded, and the match was made. The two awkwardly made their way
through a song, almost painfully holding on to each other for support. My son,
who has the grace of a large St. Bernard puppy, managed to shuffle through the
slow song without any major damage to the girl's feet. When the music broke, the
tempo picked up and all the kids flew back to the safety of their groups.
The song had a
peppy beat, and I found myself wishing I could full tilt dance around the room
with the assurance I had only developed in later in life. Instead, I contented
myself with tapping my foot and humming along to the music.
When it was time
to go, I realized that despite all that I have read and seen on television about
young adolescents maturing more quickly; some things never changed and that
one of the constants was the awkward moments that only a junior high school
dance can present. I squinted at my wrinkles in the mirror and wondered silently
what had happened to make time fly by so quickly. How could I, former geek queen
extraordinaire, wallflower of every junior high school dance, now be the
slightly hip (but ever so old, and don't forget it!) chaperone of my child's
dance?
My son jumped
into the car beside me. "Mom." He said, looking at me seriously.
"Yes,
son?" I imagined that he was now going to compliment me on a chaperoning
job well done; tell me how glad he was that I was his mom and other
heart-warming Kleenex commercial type moments like that.
"Mom, my
friends and I thought it was sooooo funny when we saw you dancing."
I was stung.
"But I didn't dance!" I protested. "I was just tapping my
foot!"
"Mom,"
he replied, "you were doing this!" He motioned some crazy arm jerks
and hip swirls.
"I did
not!" I exclaimed.
"You did!
We thought you were so funny!"He continued on about my supposed dance of
hilarity as it dawned on me that I was no greater of a success as a junior high
school dance chaperone then I had been as a late-blooming wallflower student.
How fitting, how never-ending is my quest to conquer the junior high dance, and
it was on the leather seat of my mini van that I realized with a jolt that I
never, ever, would.