That's when we noticed the balloon arrangements included straw and bandanas,
and they were handing out cowboy hats. We started to worry.
Not
only was it country music, but it was much louder than it usually is at
this event. We could barely hear ourselves.
We
sat at a table with my dad's old med school friends, who sit with him
every year. They all enjoy dancing, and we usually eat and then dance
the night away. There's something about my dad's generation; they've always
seemed young to me. Maybe it was the influence of the Beatles and Janis
and Jimmi, but I feel at home with Baby Boomers. Especially this group,
because they're not afraid to let down their hair, what little of it is
left.
For
awhile, we stared aghast at each other, wondering what the deal was with
the music. We almost considered going up to the sound system and asking
them to turn it down. After what seemed an interminable period of country
music -- but which was probably only 10 minutes -- they began to play
some Justin Timberlake, whose songs sounded a lot like Michael Jackson.
No wonder the kids like him.
My
dad and I were getting salads when I noted, "This is their evil plan
to make me like Justin Timberlake; play country music first." My
dad laughed.
Justin Timberlake eventually gave way to the oldies everyone loves. They
did interrupt the festivities, though, to teach us some country line dances.
I participated just for the heck of it. Dad's friends sat down. When I
rejoined the table, they jumped all over me. "Why'd you dance to
that?"
"Dancing
is dancing," I said.
"Yes,
but country music?" They seemed to think I needed my head examined,
but nobody there was a psychiatrist, so they let it pass.
Later
in the evening, the sound system cranked disco favorites like "Dancing
Queen" and the dancers handed out "disco sunglasses," which
were funky and cheap. My pair had rose-colored star-shaped lenses.
At
the tail end of the evening, when only a few people were left on the floor
and dad was talking to his friends, I started imitating a nearby dancer,
and she kept coming up with fancier moves, which, much to her surprise,
I was matching. I felt like Rikki Lake in "Hairspray." But then
she leaped up and did a jumping split.
"You
win," I conceded.
As
always, my dad's friends were some of the last ones there. They dashed
around the room grabbing the centerpieces, which were huge balloons, making
sure we all had one to take home. The wife of one of dad's friends whispered
to me that she was glad I'd showed, because I got my dad dancing, something
they'd never been able to do.
We
all stood in the hallway saying our good-byes, with me promising to send
them copies of the pictures I'd taken. "This is like 'Brigadoon',"
one of them called.
Everyone
laughed.
"See
you next year!" And we left, trailing huge balloons.
|