Dancing.

I've recently come to the realization that I never liked dances growing up.

There were multiple reasons, the main one being that nobody ever really danced at those things. And if they did, no one ever asked me. Perhaps that's why I took a shining to the line dancing craze, and even La Macarena -- no partner required. But from my very first dance during sixth period on the last day of sixth grade, I found out that school dances were never like they appeared on TV. Or on Back to the Future.

Watching the most recent episode of Friday Night Lights, I was reminded of one dance in particular. It was my second dance, held sometime just before seventh grade commenced. All of the incoming junior high schoolers (Midland was not on a middle school system) were invited to a dance at the Midland High School Youth Center to celebrate and get to know one another. This was an early lesson on what junior high school was really like -- Hell.

I don't remember what I was wearing that night. I do remember what other people wore -- probably because, as a wallflower, I had ample time to observe and absorb. The predominant outfit for girls was a pair of plaid "dress shorts" over tights with either loafers or Mary-Janes. I felt so uncool, especially since my sixth grade girlfriends didn't greet with me as much enthusiasm as I had expected. I distinctly remember being ignored for the better part of the first hour I was there, which is probably an overdramatized version of what really happened considering that everything is dramatic when you're 13-years-old. I remember standing in the phone booth crying, trying to hear my parents over the strains of whatever M.C. Hammer song was popular at the time.

My daddy came to pick me up in his blue and silver Chevy truck. We drove out to the Kettle on Wall Street and talked over Cokes and a plate of french fries. I remember a lot of tears. I remember him telling me that I was beautiful and that I looked like my mama. I remember feeling so safe. I didn't need those stupid freckle-faced girls back at the youth center -- at least for the hour we sat in that coffee shop booth.

Sadly, I can't just call my dad to pick me up anymore. Living so far away makes it difficult for me to just drop by his office and lounge on his cool pleather loveseat while he runs joke after cheesy joke by me. (Where in the Bible was a car first referenced? "They all came in one Accord.") But I can still call him and he can pretty much talk me down about anything. Whether it's on my most homesick of days when all I want to do is pack my car and head east, or whether it's more of the same "why don't the boys like me?" stuff from junior high, Dad's got my number. I'm blessed.

(And for the record, I still don't like dances.)