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Chaperone at the School Dance Party |
I think the first mistake I made was exchanging pleasantries with my daughter's high school principal on a Back To School Night I attended a freshman year. She seemed like a nice enough woman, energetic and all smiles, but as I learned later this was all part of the camouflage educators wear when they're trolling for volunteers. Now don't get me wrong, I believe in doing my share of volunteering. I man the hot dog booth at football games and keep stats for the girl's basketball team, I even subject my car to the abrasive cleaning tactics employed by high school car wash fundraisers.
So it came to be that one fateful day I was waiting in the school parking lot to do an after school car pool pick-up when the wily Principal Moorework approached me with her usual smile and inviting demeanor. I was being sucked into the volunteer trap and I didn't even know it. No sooner had I exchanged a handshake, I was hit in the solar plexus with: "How would you like to chaperone at the Sophomore's dance party tonight?"
Chaperone? This was levels above putting hot dogs in a bun or doling out hot chocolates. I'm pretty sure I said that I'd love to, but I really can't remember because my heart was pounding so loud it blocked out all ear function.
I do know I must've uttered some sort of affirmative because Mrs. Moorework smiled her smile, shook my hand and left me dripping in my own nervous flop sweat.
Fortunately there was not much time between car pool and when the school's doors opened for the dance party. I thought that maybe I should tell my daughter of my newfound chaperone status in order to avoid the initial shock and awe, but I decided against it when I saw the midriff-baring tee shirt and loin cloth-like skirt she was planning on wearing (approved by my wife). Now, suddenly, my chaperoning had an ulterior motive. I would be judge, jury, and executioner (if need be) if some testosterone spewing sophomore boy dared get within ten feet of my little girl.
I arrived early at the school to get a lay a good lay of the land much like a secret service agent familiarizing himself with a location before the President makes an appearance. I was impressed with the party decorations and party rentals. There were the requisite tables and chairs, but there was also a party tent for where a magician would perform magic tricks and an artist would draw charicatures of the partygoers. Mrs. Moorework had a quick in-service chaperone meeting and went over some of the ground rules. I was surprised that there was no mention of chaperone procedure when and if teen hormones flew out of control. Clearly it was going to be up to me to thwart all unacceptable behavior that involved my daughter.
When my daughter arrived I immediately made a point of welcoming her to the dance party. Her eyes practically popped out of their sockets. She immediately pulled me off to a darkened corner to hide that we knew each other and were talking. She wanted to know what I was doing at the dance party and I quickly explained the whole volunteer/chaperone thing. This didn't go over too well. She asked that I immediately "vacate the premises" or risk ruining her life forever. When I explained that I was obliged to fulfill my chaperone obligation to Principal Moorework, my daughter reluctantly agreed to tolerate my presence so long as I didn't do something nerdy like wave to her or her friends.
Shortly after this fun encounter, the DJ cranked up his equipment and the separate huddles of boys and girls began to mingle and make their way to the dance floor. I'm not quite clear what style of music was being played, it seemed to be a cross between rap and deafening rock 'n' roll. I noticed the kids trying to talk to each other, but they were reduced to screaming into each other's ear just to be heard.
Everything seemed to be going according to plan for the first few songs. Not much dancing, just a lot of small group gathering. I was gaining confidence in my job as chaperone. On the rare occasion that a boy and girl trickled off to a dark corner to gain some privacy, I quickly made an appearance, gave them a fatherly frown and caused them to immediately break from their clench.
Then it happened. My daughter was asked to dance by a baggy-pants-wearing hoodlum. Okay, he probably wasn't a hoodlum, but he was of the male persuasion and that was enough to set my alarms off. I watched closely making sure his hands remained closer to his body than her body. I thought it would be all over when the dance ended, but to my shock they walked off to one of those dark corners. I quickly cut a path across the room and offered up an eye-piercing stare. No effect. They were so engrossed with each other that I couldn't get their attention. I could smell the hormone beginning to rage. I had to resort to Plan B before it was too late. Quickly, I found Principal Moorework and pulled her to the dance floor adjacent to my daughter's location. Without hesitation I began to "bust a move" not quite sure if I was in tempo with the musical noisiness or not. It didn't really matter, so long as my daughter and the wolf who was standing beside her noticed my gyrations.
It worked. When my daughter caught sight of me cutting the carpet with her Principal, her jaw dropped and she fled the scene without so much as a goodbye to the boy. The embarrassment ploy had worked. My daughter was extricated from danger and I didn't even have to say a word. When the boy looked to me for an answer, I just shrugged. It was one of those shrugs that said, "Hey, don't ask me to explain women."
When the song ended, Principal Moorework thanked me and commented about how well I had adjusted to chaperone life. Then she smiled that smile. She caught me like a deer in headlights. She was trolling for chaperones for next month's prom. Hmm, I wonder if my old tuxedo still fits?
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