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13 may 2002

chaperoning sucks

I danced this weekend until I bruised the bottom of my foot. That always feels good.

Backup a bit. So on Friday, I was so tired I could barely stand up, due in part to the end-of-grade test celebration dance I got to chaperone that afternoon. Our principal, being an all-in-all swell guy, thought it would be a nice reward for the students after a week of shading in bubbles for comprehension questions about Tiki the Wonder Duck and the History of Elbow Macaroni in Cleveland.

One o'clock arrives on Friday, and the students are pretty excited to have the afternoon off. Most of the teachers look somewhat defeated as we lead our charges into the gym. There is a lot of thumping and strange-smelling fog emanating from the DJ under that basketball goal. His speakers are approximately the size of my car. The gym is a comfortable 110 degrees, perfect for shaking some serious booty, and then throwing up under the bleachers.

The students, of course, line up against the wall. Not because we've asked them to, but because leaning against things is cool. Yo, we'll just sit here and breathe in the DJ fog. My eyes feel like they're being dug out with forks. The last time I heard music this loud was late last week at the gas station, blaring out of a lavendar 1986 Ford Escort with skated-out wheels and neon trim.

And I realize that the transformation is now complete. It is official.

I'm the teacher at the school dance.

This

sucks.

So now I'm leaning on/stuck to the bleachers with the other teachers, when students gradually step onto the dance floor. Not to dance, of course, but to stand in a heap and talk about so-and-so's bad weave, laugh at their nauseated teachers, explore new and exciting applications for profanity, and check out the hot DJ.

Par-tay.

It takes about 15 minutes, but eventually some kids do start to dance. Now, you would think in a gym that's like 6000 square feet, they'd have plenty of room to do this. But no. While one or two kids dance, 200 more of them crowd around like American Bandstand gone Hitchcock, and cut off any remaining air supply for the group.

Teachers' mission number one: Make sure dancers receive sufficient oxygen. "Okay, back up, give them room!" The kids scatter, only to re-group 15 feet away and suffocate more kids/raise the roof/tell them to "go, go, go". Another teacher enters the fray. The cycle continues.

I feel about as hip as a liver spot.

Teachers' mission number two: Enforce the six-inch rule. Now, back in the 80's when I was a dancing dipwad, this only applied to Richard Marx-inspired slow dances. They were labored and clumsy, but never really gross. Teachers would give occasional sweeties dirty looks, but nothing serious.

So I'm strolling around the sweaty mob (and can I just note here that nothing in the civilized world smells worse than a middle school dance in the gym), when I notice a...um...couple on the periphery. She's...how to describe this...okay, he's standing there, right. Just standing there. Her backside is to him, shaking or grinding or...gaaaaaagh! So crap, I have to enforce some kind of decency here without looking like my grandmother.

This is where the being about six feet tall part comes in handy. I quietly walk over to them, place my hand on his shoulder, and give him the Eyebrow (which is just this *thing* I've always been able to do and can't describe, but is an effective form of communication.)

We've got about twenty minutes to go. The DJ initiates an Electric-Slide sort of dance, only newer and better than the original. Teachers look at one another. We figure if we're going to die of heatstroke, may as well have fun doing it. We take our places in the group. Students are either overjoyed at our presence, or cramping with laughter. We're not quite sure. We continue to shake teacher booty. The consensus is, I'm not too bad for a teacher.

Saturday night rolls around. Sufficiently recovered from the Friday afternoon dance, I hit Summer on Trade here in Downtown Winston, and later the Wild Magnolia in Greensboro. Linda, Amy, Frank, Maureen, a recent Texas cowboy and his new wife, a bunch of hula-hooping kids, and a bunch more who think they'll give it a whirl--we dance. We dance in the streets until the band stops, the beer tent closes, the bar shuts down, and the cops shoo us away.

The ubiquitous policemen at the party.

Yep, the transformation is complete.