My 10 year old and I had a conversation at the weekend about naked dancing.
The comedy improv class he goes to is moving venue. I am relieved, because parking outside the current one is a complete bitch. He is relieved he says, because 'there are inappropriate billboards outside class, and hopefully there's won't be outside the new venue."
Whilst driving, I am racking my brains as to what these "inappropriate billboards' can be.
"What do you mean honey?" I ask.
"Like that one!" he points, "That one there. Full nude dancing. Why do people do that?"
He waits for an answer. My Saturday afternoon is taking a turn for the worse.
"Well, sometimes people like to feel powerful and seeing strangers dancing with no clothes on sometimes makes some people feel powerful."
"That's just dumb."
"Well..."
"And why would people do that? Why would someone dance naked?"
"Because they need the money. Because they might think that's the only option open to them....
I try to move this cunningly on to, 'that's why it's a good idea to work hard for your CST's conversation' but he's persistant.
"But do they enjoy it? The people dancing naked. "
Inside my head I've decided that until the class moves venue, his dad is going to be picking him up.
"I dunno honey. I've never danced naked. I'm guessing they don't really think about it that much. I'm guessing they do what they do because they think it's the right thing to do for them and... You know what pal, there are things in the world I can't really explain. Sometimes it's good to consider why someone who isn't you, might do something you wouldn't do. Because, when you understand the "why" then a lot of the time, you can let it go."
"Well I think that's just wrong."
"OK"
He is silent for a moment and I am hopeful the conversation is resolved.
"I am never dancing naked"
"Good. Good for you. I'm glad to hear it"
"And I'm never going to be a gentleman if you have to watch someone dancing naked to join a club"
"That's OK too."
Yesterday he came home from school. He'd been watching about the events in Boston on his phone.
"This is one of those things you can't explain right?"
"Right"
"Well, I want you to know, I'm not ever going to try to understand the "why". OK?"
"Totally son. Totally. Me neither"
Tuesday, April 16, 2013
Thursday, April 4, 2013
That time already?
I think I might have reached that age. The age when I'm completely an adult.
I don't feel like an adult. I still react to situations like I'm 16 - get ridiculously smug if I'm asked for my ID when buying alcohol, can't believe that if I don't clear up after me, nobody else will.
But I've noticed, of late, the ratio of blind enjoyment to harsh responsibility has changed and I can see - on some not too distant horizon - a day where I might boast about my age to a complete stranger in the post office (if I can still find a post office).
Today I phoned my sister - 8 years apart.
8 years that seemed a massive age gap when I was 5.
She aged 13, studious, tidy, with the miraculous ability to eat one single Mars bar over the space of three days if she chose.
Me wrestling to make my way to school, wearing with my brothers' oversize hand-me-down duffle-coat.
And then again at 13:
Me, all black eyeliner and jumbo cords (never stylish), acned, listening to my Blondie records - She at 21 - all Moody Blues and color co-ordinated and sophisticated.
Then I was 21 and still using black eyeliner. And my head was full of Brecht and cabaret and how to market a comedy double act, and she, at 29, happily married, unassumingly caring for her young daughter whilst simultaneously striding forth in her career, like some feature on "power women" in Cosmopolitan magazine.
Decades later of similarities, differences, family parties, agreements, disagreements, births, bereavements, successes, failures...time, I find myself in a place of new worries. I call her today - tired of pressure, worn with sadness, old in spirit, but in my head, still way way too young.
"Some days I really wish Mum and Dad were here," I say.
"Me too," says she.
I am at that time where 8 years feels like nothing. Where differences become the same. Where I am grateful not just for what my parents were, but all they left behind.
I'm at that age.
I don't feel like an adult. I still react to situations like I'm 16 - get ridiculously smug if I'm asked for my ID when buying alcohol, can't believe that if I don't clear up after me, nobody else will.
But I've noticed, of late, the ratio of blind enjoyment to harsh responsibility has changed and I can see - on some not too distant horizon - a day where I might boast about my age to a complete stranger in the post office (if I can still find a post office).
Today I phoned my sister - 8 years apart.
8 years that seemed a massive age gap when I was 5.
She aged 13, studious, tidy, with the miraculous ability to eat one single Mars bar over the space of three days if she chose.
Me wrestling to make my way to school, wearing with my brothers' oversize hand-me-down duffle-coat.
And then again at 13:
Me, all black eyeliner and jumbo cords (never stylish), acned, listening to my Blondie records - She at 21 - all Moody Blues and color co-ordinated and sophisticated.
Then I was 21 and still using black eyeliner. And my head was full of Brecht and cabaret and how to market a comedy double act, and she, at 29, happily married, unassumingly caring for her young daughter whilst simultaneously striding forth in her career, like some feature on "power women" in Cosmopolitan magazine.
Decades later of similarities, differences, family parties, agreements, disagreements, births, bereavements, successes, failures...time, I find myself in a place of new worries. I call her today - tired of pressure, worn with sadness, old in spirit, but in my head, still way way too young.
"Some days I really wish Mum and Dad were here," I say.
"Me too," says she.
I am at that time where 8 years feels like nothing. Where differences become the same. Where I am grateful not just for what my parents were, but all they left behind.
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