'Twas that time of year again, the Father/Daughter Dance. (Though I only had Miss June as a date this year. Miss Louise had decided that she was no longer interested in such silliness.) It really is a hilarious business, from the anticipatory fanciness:
to the dance-floor silliness (though it's a very serious sort of silliness, chock full of entertainement for my inner armchair anthropologist: the fathers training the daughters in the cultural ritual of the sock hop, the young ladies glancing at each other for pointers, oscillating between faux-adult formality and giggling girlishness—and everyone checking each other for the correct moves to the latest synchronized dance craze1):
to hula hooping:
It always ends in hula hooping.
1 I got pretty solid on the Cupid Shuffle a few years back, and I've been milking for everything it's worth ever since. I'm a lot rustier on the newer moves. I'll have to do some YouTube research next year in preparation.