The Unbearable Lameness Of Being, by Riley Breckenridge

When I was in junior high, my parents decided that they needed to put me through an pricey, pointless form of torture known as cotillion. For those of you unfamiliar with this pretentious shitshow disguised as a way of culturing pre-teens, Wikipedia defines it as:

“…training that children and young adults attend to learn manners and proper social behavior in the context of formal dance.”

If you think that sounds at all worthwhile, you probably hate your children.* (Or will, when you have them.)

We met once a week for a few months a year in a ballroom at a fancy local hotel, though it felt like we went every single day for thirteen months a year. I think the “training” lasted for about an hour, but I swear to God you could have played seven baseball games in the time between when my mom pushed me out of the passenger seat of the car and when I came rocketing out of the hotel’s revolving door as if I’d just robbed the place.

Everyone was required to dress in formal attire, which probably wasn’t such a burden for the girls, because most of them probably played “dress-up” anyways (which never made any sense to me, because it always seemed like playing “do your taxes”), so cotillion just gave them a valid excuse to do so. They’d get all gussied up in gowns that were essentially miniature versions of the dresses they’d eventually lose their virginity in (or out of) six years later at their senior prom, shithouse drunk and barfing all over the floor of some hotel room’s bathroom. The guys were in suits and ties, which was a great idea because everyone knows that inherently uncomfortable situations are much easier to deal with (and far less traumatic) when you’re wearing a wool suit and slacks and a paisley faux-silk noose.

Though most of my cotillion memories have been removed from my brain via selective amnesia, from what I can remember the majority of the night was dedicated to ballroom dancing, a “skill” that I have used a total of ZERO times in my life. Any practical application that could have been used at, say, a wedding, has been swallowed by my insecurity, as I usually opt to pound cocktails from a table far away from the dance floor and mock those wedding goers ballsy enough to cut a rug.

At cotillion I spent most of my time with my feet tangled up with the feet of a girl I had science class with at some point, wondering why she smelled like rotten chili and tuna fish, and being annoyed by the butt sweat dripping down my inner thigh. It was a worthless forty minutes, I tell you. Worthless.

Cotillion’s worthlessness didn’t end there though. Between sessions of stumbling through the cha-cha and battling an adolescent case of butt butter, we were taught manners, another “skill” I’ve retained very little of. I still can’t tell you which fork is for salad and which is for the entrée. And my lessons on how to be a “gentleman” (opening the door for a lady, pulling your date’s chair out for her and waiting until she sits down, etc.) haven’t been as beneficial as my parents (or my girlfriend’s parents) had probably hoped. More often than not, when I’ve held a door open for a woman, it’s been a thankless gesture or been received with a glare, as if I’ve insulted them or treated them as inferior by being courteous**. And, mind you, the last time I got my ass kicked, it happened after I held the door open for my friend’s girlfriend’s friend, got called a “faggot” by a drunk steakhead in a Del Taco parking lot, stood up for myself, got sucker punched by the steakhead’s friend, and woke up in the back of an ambulance on my way to the hospital for extensive brain testing (with no health insurance at the time).  Thanks, cotillion!

This colossal waste of time was hosted by an uppity old woman in her mid-60s who likely wore her a pantsuit to bed. Her husband, a World War 2 vet, was so ripped on gin and post-traumatic stress disorder drugs, he often had no idea where he was – a wise move, given his surroundings. There were also a few younger dance instructors: a couple of closeted gay guys and a few young women who probably wore chastity belts well into their 30s.

Adding fuel to an already painfully awkward fire, the varying levels of physiological development occurring at the time always proved to complicate the selection of a dance partner.

Oh, puberty. Some girls had boobs. Some didn’t. Some girls were a full head taller than most of the guys, and others weren’t. A few virile, teen-bearded, kielbasa-wielding, 13-year-old guys would quickly snatch up the prime dance partners (amply-boobed, tall, womanish), while the rest of us underdeveloped, nipple-dicked boys would sit and twiddle our thumbs until all that were left were the girls who were built like our fathers.

Cotillion: Teaching manners and proper social behavior, while crushing your child’s fragile self-confidence, in the context of formal dance, since the 1900′s!

So let’s recap:

BENEFITS:

1) Provides fodder for a blog post 20+ years later

2) Saves a generation of children from having to go to cotillion (I’d never do that to my kids.**)

3) Teaches one how to effectively manage the discomfort of a prepubescent boner in wool slacks, which has transitioned very easily into the management of adult boners in wool slacks.

DISADVANTAGES:

1) Eventually, and circuitously, leads to an expensive hospital bill for an ambulance ride and CAT scan.

2) Caused irreparable childhood trauma.

3) Created a lifelong aversion to Dancing with the Stars and all things ballroom and/or dance-related. (Except that my girlfriend has convinced me that watching said show is worthwhile.)

So a push, then. And if there’s anything I’ve learned out of life,*** it’s that, often, a push is about as much as one can hope for.

I just wish I would have learned this (or anything) at cotillion.

*I love you, mom.

**No, I really love you.

***Like…lots.

For more from Riley…

Past work on FlipCollective.com.
To follow him on Twitter.
To send him an email.