Hurtling toward teenaged

My bright, sweet, amazing 11-year-old is going to her first dance tomorrow night. Her first dance. Sixth grade. How could the schools allow this to happen? Don’t they understand that dances can only lead to thoughts of boys? I want her head filled with algebra, not Al. (Definitely not Al.)

She has patiently explained that this is not a dance. Dances aren’t until seventh grade (that’s more like it). It’s more like activities. But the permission slip says “dance” about 87 times. (Among the rules is one that only an enforcement bureaucrat like myself could love – no one with a “significant referral to the office” will be allowed to attend.)

Do I remember my first dance? Only like it was yesterday, baby. First song I ever heard in a darkened gym? The Raspberries, “Go All The Way.” Had no idea what that meant, by the way. Last song of the night? King Harvest, “Dancing in the Moonlight.” Price of bad orange soda in a paper dixie cup? 10 cents. Number of girls I made so much as eye contact with? Zero. Are you kidding? If one I liked had talked to me I would actually have died. (By the time I graduated from high school, I almost had it down. I could ask a girl to dance, as long as I didn’t have a crush on her or anything like that. If I did, it was, of course, impossible.)

I’m a big Raspberries fan to this day, by the way.