Every now and again, Daver and I will set up shop outside (typically nursing a couple of cold frosty ones. Like Miller High Life: The Champagne of Beers) and discuss our children. His work tends to be the sort that my brain is not large enough to process and my “work” is so mind-numbingly dull (“…and THEN, and THEN I emptied the DUST BUSTER! Bwahahahaha!”) that neither of us care to discuss it.
So we instead discuss the future lives of our children. Hypothetically speaking.
And since I was a bit of a rebel in my own way (dude, have you MET NAT? Obviously a rebellion thing), I often ponder what my children will do to horrify me later in life. It’s inevitable, so we try to brace ourselves for whatever would bug us the most.
Which, maybe it’s because I’m so graceful that I nearly broke my foot walking down the stairs, or because last summer I literally fell through the front door while stone-cold sober, would be interpretive dancing.
Yes, I would die if my son became an interpretive dancer.
I have no real problems with dancer in general; if I were going to do something cultured, I’d likely chose the symphony or the opera–didn’t know your Aunt Becky liked opera, didya?–and not the ballet, but the ballet is different. I can understand ballet.
Interpretive dancing, however, baffles me. I simply don’t, and probably never will, follow or appreciate what some people think of as Dancing With The Music (Creepily). I just don’t get it. And I’m kinda freaked out by it.
I made the mistake of telling my older brother and his wife about this in a completely stupid turn of events, so now every time they see Ben, they encourage him to “do a dance that reminds him of a salad” or “doesn’t the thought of a cat make you want to dance like one?” I sit quietly there, while poor Ben tries to act this out, clenching my teeth and hissing that they had better get damn good and comfortable going to every.single.fucking.show.he.does.
They always laugh, seemingly unaware that I am deadly serious. I will drag them from their comfortable yuppie home and drive them to the abandoned warehouse my son–my interpretive dancer son–and his troupe of equally misguided youths (I hope) will perform for us all. In 100 degree heat. While we sit on the cement floor next to scuttling cockroaches.
And I will rue the day I had these as my siblings.
What would be the worst profession you could imagine your future child doing? Let’s assume that they are happy with it, so you can’t use any bullshit “whatever he’s HAPPY with” line. Let’s also leave “soldier” out of this one, because here on my blog you mean “politician” or “Republican.”