The last gasps of the dying debutante nation.
In August, I got a letter on high end paper that suspiciously resembled a wedding invite.
The formal invite inside was for a cotillion dance to be held at the big hotel downtown in early October. The last chance for snooty mothers in rich town to parade their daughters, without calling it debutante ball.
Mom explained she knew the old hag who ran this shit show (she had been a teacher in the 50’s). Boys dressed in suits, girls in formal dresses, and we would dance for 2 hours to the wonderful sweet tones of 1940’s songs played by a small accordion and guitar four piece band of bald men in their sixties. How groovy can you get?
Mom also told me about debutantes, and what happened in the old days. Formals existed for girls, mothers wet themselves buying their cherished virgins expensive dresses and shoes, followed by hundreds on hair and makeup. With a sigh, mom said boys were just window dressing; this is what you expect in a rich school district like ours.
There would be 6 sessions: October through December, and February through April. This event was new, and the biddies were hoping to start a trend. Of course, I said no fucking way. Dance to crappy music like it was 1946? 1-2-3, 1-2-3. I didn’t want to wear a suit, period. And talk to a girl? Can I find a place to hide?
Of course, the old man got involved. Crocodile smile, wouldn’t I like to go? I needed to grow up. How about it? No, dad. Great! We’ll send the money in.
Mom calls around and my friend Dan was invited (not Bob), so I’ll have someone to share in my terror.
Ill pick this up later when October comes. In the meantime, let’s waltz, shall we?