When I was in 6th grade, a number of us went to Dick Chaplin’s Cotillion in Preston Center, for a half-dozen Friday evenings, in order to become ladies and gentlemen. At 12-years-old, we had a long way to go, but the girls were up for the opportunity to touch a boy. The boys were not that eager to touch us.

So it was awkward, let me tell you. The idea was that the girls would dress up (dresses, hose, and gloves), sit on one side of a big room, properly, please, with hands in lap, ramrod straight posture, feet crossed at the ankles, and wait for the poor boys to come over and ask us to dance.

No, sit back down, there, Suzie, you do not do the asking! This is the early 60s! Your mother is still wearing a hat to Garden Club. You will not have the right to ask a boy to do anything until 1968.

But, I digress.

Everyone danced, and although my boyfriend, Bob Cathey, was in attendance, my frequent partner was a head shorter than I. Granted, nearly everyone at that time was a head shorter than I, except for Bob, which is why I loved him and thought we would be married.

But, I digress.

Our last class was to be a Christmas dance, and my mother pulled out all the stops. I had a new chiffon dress in a beautiful shade of blue and sparkly, dyed-to-match shoes. I also had my hose at the ready, complete with a garter belt. Remember those?

That morning I was not feeling well, but my mom took me to get my hair done. That had never happened before, and it never happened again.

That evening I got dressed and I looked like a baby blue cupcake. I felt beautiful and a little nauseous. I rode with my friend Peggy and her father. They were leaving the next day on a road trip.

Almost immediately, I threw up on the floorboard of the back seat, right on my dyed-to-match shoes.

The took me home. I shudder to think about their car ride the next day.

I may have worn the dress again; I don’t remember. But the shoes stayed in my closet, untouched for years. I couldn’t bear to throw them away. I also couldn’t wear them.

Bob Cathey moved away in 8th grade.

I tell you this story because it is full of existential angst, whatever that means, but also because years later Molly, Erin and Sarah also went to Cotillion. They gathered at a country club, but otherwise it was the same: dresses, hose and gloves. They did not have to wear a garter belt.

And now Lyla is going to Cotillion. All dressed up, but no gloves and I’m pretty sure they don’t wear hose at all now. She is just as thrilled as I was, and her mother before her.

Three generations of Cotillion. Yes it’s a Southern thing. And, yes, it seems a bit anachronistic, but hey, I think we can use more civility, more manners, more courtesy. And if the girls get to ask the boys to dance, then it’s a win-win.