Can Someone Please Explain Cotillion?

I sent my son to cotillion and I don’t know why. I mean it was cute and all, seeing him dressed like a little yachtsman, a miniature polititian, but what was the point? Over the course of ten weeks the kids learned some dances, which they will never use in actual social situations except for maybe at their wedding. If my prayers are answered that won’t be for at least another two decades and they’ll forget by then, right?

The culmination of cotillion was the Holly Ball. We parents dressed up and joined the kids in the gymnasium of the Boys and Girls Club. There were jackets and corsages. I’m not sure what it is we’re preparing them for. Maybe if the dances were held at a country club — if we belonged to one of those, and if it were the type that hosted formal dances and not just happy hours where surgically enhanced housewives got drunk and rationalized screwing the service guy at the Lexus dealership – maybe then it would make sense. But from where I stand, it doesn’t.

This year I had it easy. I had a boy in cotillion. That meant one outfit, week after week. If the girl wants to participate, I’m into it for eight dresses. But I don’t think she’ll bite. She’s smarter than the rest of us. One look at the panty hose and white gloves and she’ll call bullshit. God, how I love that girl.