As time goes by, I command less and less respect.
Not sure if it’s one of those developmental milestones I once poured over or maybe just me, but Catherine pulls no punches in expressing her opinion.
(I can tell that some of you think she came by this honestly and not from the Vanech side of her DNA. You may be right).
With the great Hawaii trip and SRO now behind us, a senior girl’s thoughts naturally turn to prom. Indeed, last weekend, while I was at a Jazzercise district meeting in Rhode Island, the kid was out with her girlfriends, traipsing from store to store trying on prospective dresses … and texting me selfies to suss out my opinion.
Yesterday afternoon, the conversation turned again to prom and Basil and I shared our memories. He had been to several proms/dances … even a debutante ball, where he escorted a girl whose parents didn’t like her actual boyfriend.
To one of these, he wore a velvet tuxedo. In June.
I recalled the dance itself and the post-prom trip via limo to New York that Thursday night in June. A bunch of us went to a place called Wednesdays and later took a horse-drawn carriage ride through Central Park.
The next day, we traveled on precious little sleep to Jones Beach, where my ineffective application of sunscreen meant I fried to such a crisp that at commencement the following Sunday the left half of my face remained blistered and tomato-red.
Catherine interrupted me along the way — first to crow that she, too, could go to New York after the prom since I had, and then as a proverbial light bulb went on over her head: “You had a BOYFRIEND?!”
“Um, yes. In fact, I went to two proms because he went to Stepinac in White Plains. Where are you going with this?” I asked, shooting Basil a quizzical look.
Her reply? “But you’re anti-social.”