Thinking back to my old high school days from fifty years ago, the Lions Club was THE place to be for the weekend dance. My beautiful red head, CJ and I always had a good time.
But there was that one night!
We arrived at the Lions Club, around 7:30 p.m., just in time to hear the band introduce themselves. This band had played there several times before and had a reputation as very good musicians.
The band was playing all the good songs; fast, slow, and in between. They were playing “96 Tears” when we entered. It was one of my personal favorites. We located our friends, Dave and Cindy. I bought CJ and me a soda and the four of us settled in. I am sure there was no discussion of world problems. We were teenagers. The here and now, the loud music, and dancing, was all that was important. And dance, we did. Lots of it.
We Strolled, Twisted, Watusied. We even did the Swim. It seemed as if every song back then had its own dance. Dave and I attempted those and other choreographed dances. I tried to move my arms, shoulders, legs, and feet in a vain attempt to stay in time to the beat of the music. I honestly didn′t care, though, how I looked. I was dancing with my baby.
The band played the great slow songs of the day: “And I Love Her” by the Beatles, “Surfer Girl” by the Beach Boys, “When a Man Loves a Woman” by Percy Sledge. Those songs required me to dance as close as possible to my partner. CJ and I certainly enjoyed feeling each other′s hearts as we danced to those songs
A couple of hours later, it happened. CJ and I had worked up a thirst, so I headed to the refreshment area to get us soda.
Teenagers are not very good at cleaning up after themselves. To busy enjoying life, I guess.
Anyway, I didn’t see it. Someone had spilt their drink along with accompanying ice cubs on the floor. My dancing feet found the drink’s residue. The music was moving me, but I am quite sure it wasn’t the music that helped me put on a dancing exhibition, in that spot, at that time.
All I can say; I did not fall down. That would only add insult to injury (perhaps literally). I considered myself lucky that my gyrations matched the beat of the music. To my surprise, no unwanted comments were made about my dancing moves. Perhaps they thought I was trying out a new dance routine. Remember, it was the 1960s and almost any dancing moves were accepted.
I gained composure, bought my date and me another soda, and headed back to my chair. Suddenly, I felt some air movement on my back side where I had not previously felt it before.
Could it be?
While pretending to be interested in CJ’s interpretation of my dancing prowess, (at least she saw something positive) I reached around to the spot in question. Of course, this was done while trying not to attract unwanted attention. Splitting one’s pants, as a teenager, at a dance would be most embarrassing. My fears, though, were confirmed. The seam at the butt of my pants was definitely separated.
How do you tell your date, you split your pants? The dance still had an hour to go. Certainly, dancing was no longer an option.
I swallowed my pride and fessed up to my friends at the table. We all shared solutions. After about thirty minutes, we all decided to leave. My friends shielded me as best they could to my car. Everyone’s pride was at stake, after all. My split pants, seen by others, meant all in my group would be fair game for razzing.
As a teenager, it is important to establish the important timelines. I wanted to continue dating CJ. I had told her father that we would be back at 11:00 p.m. We left the dance early. Getting her home early meant there would be a good chance I would be expected to get her home at that same time on future dates.
Hey! I was a teenager. The logic is not the same as adults.
CJ appeared to be thinking the same way, so she had no objections to making a few slow laps around the town. That would insure we would not get back to her house too early.
In the car, I was safe. No one except my friends, knew about my pants. I was confident they were not going to say anything.
CJ and I cruised the town for a while before heading to her house. We pulled into her driveway at 11:00 p.m. I walked her to the door, kissed her goodnight, got back into my car, and drove away.
Despite the night’s unfortunate circumstance, all I could think about on my drive home was that beautiful red head.