So, it is safe to classify the following circumstances as a forgivable miss by good old Dad here. The evening event was advertised as a school dance. It was simple enough. Now, perhaps, I did not carefully read the information contained in the school e-mail as required. Perhaps, I was too excited to embarrass my child on the dance floor with the old man cutting a rug. Nonetheless, I obviously overlooked the fine print regarding the dress code for the evening event. And nowadays, I admittedly embrace the opportunity to slide into stylish threads given the years spent hiding in oversized clothing.

And so, about a month prior to the dance, lessons commenced in the family room to correct my daughter’s two left feet. I carefully curated songs from the 80s and 90s to serve up the appropriate vibe. Once we mastered the simple two step as our foundation, we were good to go. Next, I accepted the mission of procuring outfits for us both with hues of pink and purple as our core colors. I found a cute dress for my daughter at Von Maur. I procured accompanying stockings and shoes from Target. With the school dance one month away, we were ready to show up and show out. Imagine my shock as we pulled into the parking lot; kids were dressed to impress in tee shirts, shorts, and jogging pants.

With exasperation, Ava sighed, “We were supposed to be dressed for a neon lights party.” In other words, this was not the glitzy, formal affair that I envisioned in my bald cranium. Nevertheless, I reassured Ava that without any doubt, we would be the best dressed tandem at the dance. She could still accessorize her outfit with neon paraphernalia and still embody the central theme for the night. We walked past a few parents I recognized, as they chuckled at my newcomer mistake, and they confirmed that this was a dance truly for the kids. However, that irony was not lost on me because this was anything but a dance. 

To utilize the word dance to describe the event would be to use the word dance loosely. Rather, it was much more like a mosh pit of flailing limbs with all the coordination of a baby giraffe learning to walk – stuck on repeat. Amongst the arrhythmic chaos, small groups of boys decided that the auditorium was an indoor playground. They chased each other around, tossed party favors at one another, and wrestled around on the floor. I had to break up two scuffles. As a chaperon, Dad was recruited to guard the stage because hard-headed kids kept bum-rushing the stage and accosting the DJ with requests. Eventually they destroyed the neon lights party sign. 

Through it all, I did not even get a chance to dance with my daughter. Honestly, I do not believe I would have been granted the opportunity because the music was warm dumpster juice on a hot, muggy afternoon. Now, I am not blaming the DJ, but the music these kids listen to nowadays (yes, I am going grumpy old man here) is atrocious. No beat. No cadence. Nonsensical lyrics. I am sorry, Travis Scott is NOT an artist that has music worth hitting the dancefloor. As FE!N blared over the speakers, and I watched rhythmic challenged suburban kids bounce around like drunk kangaroos having a seizure, I frantically checked my watch praying the lights would come up. Overall, I represented for my daughter, and we looked good together. She had fun with her friends, so that is all that counts. However, next year, I am definitely dialing back the stylish threads.