A Snowball's Chance

Last evening the middle Llama-ette and I attended a "Snowball Dance," the annual father/daughter bash put on by the local Brownie troupes. With all due modesty, I like to think that I have at least a few talents. Dancing, however, is not one of them. I don't really like it and I'm not much good at it, whether one is talking of the more traditional waltzes, foxtrots and two-steps, or else the modern mutual shaking of booties in which the young people like to indulge. Nonetheless, at least one night a year I can wear the mask, especially since (as SWMNBN would say) it's for the children.

This was our third year together, and while there were a number of soothingly familiar occurances - the traditional traffic snarl as the Committee tried to form up the gels for the limbo contest, the conga-lines that transmogrified into games of crack-the-whip, and the notorious "chicken dance", for example - there was a markedly new ingredient this year in that about 75% of teh playlist consisted of either Hannah Montana, "High School Musical 1&2" and the Jonas Brothers. I noticed many of the fathers (self included) looking at each other in a wild surmise as their progeny belted out the words and, as if they'd been choreographing it for months, simultaneously aped the moves performed by the original stars on the tee vee. I wouldn't have minded so much except that one of the songs that got bumped this year was "Shout", just about the only song I can put up any pretense of being able to dance, and that only because I've seen Animal House so many times.

Ah, well. In the end, it didn't really matter. I conscientiously swayed and stepped, twirling the gel when called to do so, dipping her at unexpected moments and even - at her positive insistance - once or twice trying that trick where the girl slides forward under one, to be hoisted back to her feet a second later. For her part, the Llama-ette was in paradise. Her mouth was set in a permanent grin, her eyes twinkled, and I do not believe that she let go my hand for more than two seconds in the course of the entire evening. And although there was plenty that my more curmudgeonly side could have found at which to grumble - the crappy music, the heat, the crowding - looking at her, I just couldn't do it. I was keenly aware that just now I am her Hero, and that it was moments like these that I had better savor, because it's only going to be a blink of an eye before she reaches the "Daa-aaaad, I can't be seen with you in public!" stage. Let it go, I said to myself. Enjoy what's in front of you. Carpe diem.

And I did.