My wife recently asked me to go with her to Mom’s Weekend at our daughter’s university. I initially declined and pointed out that I was not, technically, a mom. But after quickly realizing my mistake, I remembered the, “Happy wife, happy life” rule, and reluctantly agreed to go.
The weekend began with an All-University Sing competition. This competition has been held annually since 1936, and, as you might imagine, the level of competition is fierce. On a scale of 1 to 10, a solid 23½. Mother grizzlies react with less aggression after finding someone walking off with one of their cubs than these girls.
This event has routinely been held in Gill Coliseum, but Gill is undergoing remodeling, so the event was moved to the nearby football team’s indoor practice field. Twenty-eight hundred plastic folding chairs were arranged around a stage which could have used a little more height. I’m not complaining, I’m just suggesting that those beyond the first row might like to watch the show. Our seats were on the 50 yard line. Here I am (I stood for the shot) –
Parents dutifully forked over $20 dollars a ticket to attend the show, except us. We were luckily enough to fall into a “special” group of parents whose kids screwed up and missed the deadline to prepurchase tickets. So we got to enjoy paying $25.
After lining up like cattle outside the practice field, the doors finally opened and the herd burst forward. Someone announced, “No saving seats,” over the loud speaker as moms threw elbows and dove to cover a span of four or five seats yelling, “These are saved.” SWAT team members kicking down the door of a drug cartel leader behave more politely.
The best part of the evening was getting to experience that scene from the movie Cool Hand Luke where the warden yells, “Put’em in the box,” and the guards shove Paul Newman into that little box to bake in the Florida sun. This is because soon after sinking into the luxury of those folding chairs, we began to feel like strips of sirloin hanging in a smoker. The body heat of 2,800 parents trapped under that tin roof turned the place into a terrarium. I didn’t check, but I’m pretty sure that moisture was dripping down the walls.
The competition ended in our great disappointment and outright shock. Our girl’s team didn’t win. Fortunately, we were able to comport ourselves with a degree of grace and dignity, by immediately declaring the event RIGGED. We demanded an independent and thorough investigation. Shortly thereafter, however, all was forgiven, as I, and all the other moms, enjoyed a “spirited” after party. That’s how we moms roll.