Many years ago, as I stumbled around in the dark on my way to the kitchen to grab a late-night snack, I suddenly spotted my oldest son, slumped in a chair at the kitchen table, with the telephone pressed to his ear. Not wanting to disturb his conversation with his girlfriend (they often talk on the phone when they’re both supposed to be in bed), I quietly made my way over to the refrigerator, opened the door, and began searching high and low for something which might excite my taste buds. I finally came across one of those horrible little packaged cups of chocolate pudding that all of my kids like to wolf down, said what the heck, and prepared to add another dozen or so points to my triglyceride count.
As I fumbled around in the utensils-drawer looking for the right sized spoon, I also observed that although my son was continuing to hold the telephone receiver tightly against his ear, he wasn’t saying a word.
“So,” I finally asked, “does she have you on hold or what?”
He placed the palm of his hand over the bottom of the receiver and whispered, “We’re having a fight – now get out of here.”
“What about?” I whispered back.
“It’s a long story,” he assured me, slowly shaking his head like he often does when he secretly wishes someone would quickly invent a magic `make-my-father-disappear wand’.
“You know,” I said, opening up my pudding cup, “I think it’s really interesting the way that you two can argue over the telephone without actually talking to each other.”
“Come on, Dad,” he pleaded, “I’ll be off in a few minutes, I promise.”
“What are you two fighting about this time?” I asked, forcing myself to swallow what turned out to be a disgusting bite of a glue-like substance from the pudding cup.
“If I tell you, will you leave?”
“Absolutely,” I lied.
“Well,” he said reluctantly, “if you gotta know, she wants to go to the stupid prom, and I don’t.” I couldn’t help but smile. “What’s so funny,” he demanded.
“Do you have any idea, I mean any idea at all, of how much trouble you are about to get yourself into?”
“What are you talking about?”
“My poor, poor boy,” I said, chucking the pudding cup, “I’m afraid your high school prom happens to be just the first of many, many events a man who has a girlfriend or wife must attend, whether he likes it or not.”
“But I don’t want to go,” he said with sincerity.
“Son,” I assured him, “There is no choice involved in this.”
“But it costs fifty dollars just to get a bid,” he explained. “And then I have to rent a tux and somehow come up with enough money to pay for dinner and pictures.”
“True love demands many things, Son, but above all, it demands that one not be cheap.”
“It’s not the money,” he explained. “I hate wearing a tux, I hate going out to fancy restaurants, and everybody says the dance itself is always a real drag. I just can’t believe she’s making such a big deal about it.”
“Well,” I said, “I guess this is as good a time as any.”
“For what?” he asked.
“For that little talk I’ve been meaning to have with you.”
“Come on, Dad, get out of here!”
You see,” I began to explain, “throughout the centuries, women have been dragging their men, young and old, kicking and screaming, off to proms, operas, theater and ballet performances, fancy dinners, plays, movies, weddings, you name it. And do you want to know why?”
“No!”
“Not because they like to sit around at a boring prom, watch a lousy play, or hear opera singers scream at the top of their lungs, that’s for sure,” I said.
“Okay, okay, why?”
Now it was my turn to whisper. “Because they like to get dressed up.”
“What?” asked my son.
“That’s right,” I said. “Women really love to get dressed up and go out. And if you are silly enough to refuse to take them to places or events where they can wear all the wonderful outfits that they have laboriously collected from hundreds and hundreds of shopping trips, well, the consequences are just too horrible to even mention.”
“So, you’re saying that I should go ahead and take her to the prom?”
“Well,” I said, patting my son lovingly on the shoulder, “only if you want your relationship to live to see another day.”