So the big day was here at last. Eighth Grade graduation! Or is it America's Top Debutante? You be the judge:
No, they're not 27 year old supermodels; it just seems that way.
It was quite a ceremony. The procession was complicated. They marched in in pairs: a boy and a girl, and were organized by height, with the shortest ones coming in first. There were more boys than girls in the class, though, so the last five boys had to march in and out together. They seemed a bit uncomfortable.
Then kids gave speeches, and grown-ups gave speeches. Diplomas were distributed. They read the names of the kids and what grade they started the school. The vast majority of them started school together in Junior Kindergarten, so they'd been in school together for 10 years. They had them all stand up as their names were read.
Then there was a part where they read the names of the kids whose parents, aunts, uncles, or grandparents had gone to the school, and there was more standing up.
I hope I'm not being too long-winded in describing this very long ceremony. Because one of the speakers (in an attempt to seem polite, I won't name names--suffice it to say that he's an Episcopal minister, but not mine) was incredibly long-winded. My daughter was rolling her eyes, my friend's daughter closed her eyes and pretended to snore, and I kept muttering things like "pompous old windbag," "self-important old blow-hard," and other, less-tactful criticisms.
After the ceremony was over, there was a reception in the gym, which gave everybody a chance to show off their outfits.
And then the fun began. The convertible parade. I'm not even a car nut and I was goggling unashamedly.
Those little girls made sure I knew that the girl whose father owned the Rolls-Royce convertible? Was their best friend. I'm happy for them, having the opportunity to befriend fame like that. But I liked the other cars just as much.
Just so you know, you're nobody around here if you don't come up with a totally clever sign for the kids to see as they're driven by. This sign showed the boy in question when he was in kindergarten in what looked like a cage with two of his friends.
Then the parade finally started. Tsk, tsk, tsk, all these Bentleys and GTOs and Corvettes, and my son was riding in a Chrysler.
Oh well. It was red, and that's what really matters.
Some of the kids threw candy out of the convertibles as they drove by, so when the parade was over, the kids ran out and picked it up.
Then some people had graduation parties, but the graduates had a dinner dance of their own to attend. And what's the point of a graduation party when the guest of honor is elsewhere? How's someone going to take him aside and tell him about plastics?
So we went out for dinner with friends. And had a rollicking time. Even so, when Young Master Buxom came home, his parents were already in bed.
He out-rollicked us. And not, I'm afraid, for the last time.