A few days ago, I received an invitation to a class reunion, and I was mulling over whether to go or not. Sherry can’t go, but she encouraged me to fly over to Phoenix for the weekend and see my “old” classmates. I was leaning toward going, until I read about the activities they have planned. One of them is a <gulp!> dance!
Back in the day, seventh and eighth grade boys, were (probably still are, today) a mass of roiling testosterone driven pubescence. We knew we liked girls, but weren’t sure why and even less sure what we should do about it.
I remain convinced eighth grade dances were a part of the plot; designed to turn would be macho men into frightened, blubbering fools.
The lights were dimmed, the girls were giggling, and talking about the silly fools across the room, while the silly fools—that would include yours truly—stumbled around, bumping into one another, mumbling the name of the true love they intended to dance with. True loves, by the way, lasted about two weeks when you were in the seventh and eighth grade.
Those dances were some of the best worst nights of my life. I swear I never felt so good and so bad at one time at the same time. Know what I mean?