I witnessed a strange phenomenon Friday evening at the Daddy-Daughter Dance at Leila's school. It was oddly familiar, and yet not. For much of the time, the walls of the gymnasium were lined with fathers focused in on their phones. They were completely oblivious to their daughters, who danced their hearts out in the center of the room.
As I observed the middle-aged wallflowers, I thought back to the dances I attended as a teen, when I spent the bulk of my time holding up gym walls with my back. That night, however, I was no wallflower. When you are north of age 40, and your kids are south of age 10, it doesn't matter whether you can dance or not. I happen to have all the grace of a pig on roller skates and all the rhythm of a dead cow. But I danced with my daughters -- at least until the girls ran off and began dancing with their friends. Then I stood mesmerized as I watched them flawlessly dance carefully choreographed routines to song after song. And when, at long last, the DJ's played one -- count 'em, ONE! And no, I'm not bitter -- actual daddy-daughter song, I picked up all three daughters at once and danced with them.
Of course, in doing so, I screwed up my back and hips, but never mind. I'd do it again in a heartbeat. My girls loved it. And so did I.
Six-year-old Colette's post-mortem on the Daddy-Daughter Dance:
"Dad, why did we even have to go there? I didn't like my cookie. And dad? I feel like it blew out my ear drums."
Me too, kid. Me too. I feel like I've been to a rock concert -- but listening to mindless drivel instead of music. What on earth is Wip it Nae Nae?
