Just when I think I’m out, they pull me back in.
I thought I was through. I thought I had paid my dues. I thought that after more 17 years of dance recitals, dance competitions and dance exhibitions, I was done. I thought after all those hours and hours and hours and hours (I’m trying to make a point here) of sitting in theaters, gymnasiums and convention halls watching thousand of kids dance just so I could watch our now 20-year-old daughter, Emma, dance for three minutes, that I was done. I thought the torch had been passed to a new generation of suckers — er, I mean, loyal fathers — who would take my place.
But I was wrong.
Not the dance part. Emma, as far as I know, has put the whole dance thing behind her. No, what I’m faced with now, at least for this weekend, is modeling.
That’s right. Modeling. A few months ago, my wife and Emma told me about something called the “KC Fashion Week.” Apparently, KC Fashion Week is, follow me here, a weeklong event featuring fashion from Kansas City.
“Sure, you guys should go,” I said.
My wife and Emma told me they didn’t just want to go. My wife and Emma told me that, in addition to professional models who model Kansas City fashion during KC Fashion Week, they also used nonprofessional models. All Emma needed to do was to go to a KC Fashion Week model audition.
So she did. And she got picked to model. Not in just one fashion show but two.
“We don’t have to go, do we?” I asked my wife.
“Of course we do,” my wife said.
“But just one fashion show, right?” I said.
“No, both, you moron,” my wife said.
In the interest of fair disclosure, lest you feel too sorry for me, I should point out that I am writing this column on the deck of our room at the Lake of the Ozarks. The deck overlooks the lake, and I currently have a cold bottle of Budweiser sitting next to my computer on a Jimmy Buffett-themed painted table. The table is painted in a Jimmy Buffett theme because the resort where we are staying has been purchased by one of Jimmy’s companies.
This makes me happy.
OK, back to my troubles.
Because Emma was chosen to be a part of KC Fashion Week, this past Wednesday I spent two hours watching a fashion show.
This may come as a shock to some of you, but until Wednesday night, I had never watched a fashion show.
Here is what happens at a fashion show: You sit down. Then two people come out on stage and talk about a fashion designer. Then nine or 10 people — mostly women — walk out on stage wearing fashion designed by the fashion designer. Then the two people come back out and talk about another fashion designer and then nine or 10 people — mostly women — walk out on stage wearing fashion designed by the fashion designer.
This is repeated five or six times until halftime. Although at a fashion show, I’m not sure it’s called halftime.
The good news is that they sell beer at the fashion show. The bad news is they don’t sell enough beer at the fashion show.
It’s Friday afternoon as I’m typing this. On Saturday morning, my wife and I will leave the Lake of the Ozarks and drive to Kansas City. Then, on Saturday night, I will spend at least two hours watching another fashion show.
My hope is that Saturday night will be the last fashion show I have to attend. But I don’t know. I figured the dance stuff would stop after a couple years, but it didn’t.
Oh, well. At least right now I’m on a deck overlooking the lake.
And I have a cold a Budweiser.