“Dad, am I going to get gonorrhea?” asked the attentive — too attentive! — girl at intermission.
It’s not a question a father expects to hear from his 5-year-old daughter. I choked on a gulp of air as I considered “appropriate” answers. Because, “You’ll never be around boys! NEVER! NEVER! NEVER!!!” is not an appropriate answer.
Thanks, Broadway!
e were in Tampa at a high school performance of “A Chorus Line” — my young sister’s final musical production before she cashes in her chips and hits the road for college. A last curtain call.
My daughter loved the show — the singing, the dancing, seeing her aunt up there, and, of course, the racy monologues introducing her to fascinating new words.
“Gonorrhea? Don’t worry. You DEFINITELY won’t get that.”
For years we’ve been going to Tampa to take in my sister’s shows — big musicals, kids playing adults, singing, busted ear drums. All manner of high school mania.
And now it’s over. Or is it just transferring to the next generation? As one chapter closes, another always opens.
Because that night we raced back to St. Augustine, getting back at 2:30 in the morning, so my daughter could make her first children’s choir performance at Memorial Presbyterian.
Her debut. Her first public performance. It has begun.
At the beginning of the service, maybe a dozen little ones in blue robes with red collars — their flip-flops and Crocs poking out below — strolled up into the pulpit. She had been nervous — all performers are — but went through with it, and I was proud. They lined her up in the front row, facing the big, scary crowd of gawking grown-ups. Then some music began, some mouths opened up and sweet, angelic voices rang out.
I wondered whether she pictured herself as Aunt Lauren up on stage under the lights. Or just a little kid singing some songs in church. Either way, she was brave, and could officially add “performer” to her resume.
This week she also started ballet lessons. One day she came home with three leotards and a pair of pink dance shoes that I had to tie bows on over and over until I got it just right.
It has begun.
My dad had warned me. Told me it was coming. Mostly he called as he was sent out — as Exemplary Parent No. 452 — in search of stage props and other dramatic necessities.
“I hope you’re ready,” he told me. “They gave me a long list of things to go purchase for the show. At the bottom it said, ‘90 condoms … un-lubricated.’”
Oh my!
The condoms are used by the actors to protect the transmitters for their wireless microphones from moisture. Don’t want to fry them. Although it wasn’t clear whether that meant the transmitters or the actors.
But explain that to the little old lady at Target who helped my father sort through the condom shelf in search of the un-lubricated kind.
“So tell me again why you need 90?” I pictured her asking. “And why can’t you use the ribbed ones?”
I pictured myself in that situation — a Panama hat pulled low over my brow and a fake mustache.
How soon before I’m running errands for condoms? Hopefully no time soon. Right now it’s just choir concerts and ballet classes. I can hack that.
Another performer in the family. Oh my! Lots of shows to go to down the road. That nervous feeling you get when it starts, and that exhilaration when it’s all over. Not them. ME!
But as long as there are no more questions about gonorrhea, I think I’ll be just fine.