Come on, COVID crisis. Because going to high school isn’t, like, scary enough without you lurking around. Because I mean, like, oh my God! It’s high school, you know?

Shoot, just the thought of it has me talking like a goofy late-80s teenager.

Thanks a lot, COVID-19!

You just had to pile on with fears of contracting your virus and agonizing over whether to send my only child off to her freshman year in a pandemic. Because going to high school in normal times wasn’t hard enough?!?

I mean, most of my memories of the high school experience lie somewhere between being stuck in a vice grip and dropped in a sausage maker. Plus, I still have regular nightmares over how to say “algebraic.”

As we approach this major milestone for my daughter, I’ve found myself reliving more and more of those wonderful days. Transported back to an era when I wore clothes so bright and colorful that it ensured retinal damage to anyone who looked at me. (On particularly dry days, I could even start brushfires.) Shirts were a patchwork of different fabrics that resembled a designer hobo tent. Yet, in spite of this and my poof-ball hair, I fancied myself a pretty cool dude, strutting about the halls in my skinny legs that looked like chopsticks in a pair of oversized canvas boat shoes.

I knew I made a mistake when I sent the text.

Ever do that? Write a text or email, hit send and then think to yourself, “Wait a minute! What the heck did I just unleash!?!”

It was to my brother. The text read: “So what are you all doing this weekend? Amelie is wondering if a canoe expedition might be possible.”

The reply was immediate: “It is. Would you be rockin’ The Sea Eagle or did you grab an aluminum canoe?”

Mind you, I don’t have any flotation devices. “The Sea Eagle” is his inflatable kayak that is pretty easy to haul around, sturdy and can be blown up on short notice. But in my brother’s parlance, the name is less a brand or product, and more like Mel Gibson yelling, “FREEDOM!” in “Braveheart.” He talks about “The Sea Eagle” like it’s another family member – like they hangout and share a beer while discussing politics and manly things; like they peered into each other’s souls and formed a union.

My daughter had been asking about doing this for a while. Trying to get us all together. Trying to get me to buy a canoe. Trying to get us to go on one of these expeditions that my brother cooks up with his 6-year-old son, Striker. She’s gone on a couple as they traipse through the woods looking for old, forgotten railroad lines or “artifacts” along the Intracoastal that could be ancient Native American pottery, or maybe petrified poop. It’s kind of a hit-or-miss thing.