The Final Nine

Oh, to be a teenager! To be filled with hope and cynicism in equal amounts. To be simultaneously arrogant and ashamed. To be an inexperienced know-it-all. To be lustful and fearful, horny and chaste, eager and incompetent. To grope your girlfriend awkwardly on an unopened sleeper sofa, silently and fruitlessly dry humping, while your parents watch Night Court in the bedroom down the hall. Oh, to be a teenager! May I never be one again. Sex and adolescence do not go well together. My memories are somehow suppressed yet crystalline; like a Jurassic bug trapped in amber. I cling to the logic that says that I wasn’t the only pimpled and brace-faced teenager who found his way under the shirt and over the bra, only to wake up the next morning wondering why it hurt to walk. Memories of my early, Clouseau-esque investigations into sexuality are laced with a combination of pride (I started on the early side), shame (I was, shall we say, underprepared), and regret (the te

Notes from today's WALK... I never liked the term "playdate." The first time I heard it, it seemed like a contrivance; a needless adult convention to describe something that didn't need describing. Two children playing together is no more a "date" than a puddle is a rain "event" or a tear is an eye "emission." Some things just occur naturally.  A playdate differs from actual play in that it is a sanctioned and organized event. It must be scheduled and hosted, like a fundraiser. The hours and activities are prescribed and agreed upon in advance. Food is usually provided. Allergies are disclosed and willingly accounted for. Locations rotate, so as to avoid any inequity or the implication that one child's home is more fun than the other. Most importantly, a playdate requires permission. And permission equals parents.  It's possible that, "Mom, can Sofia and I have a playdate," is the second most common