Sara, the daughter, is telling me about Friday night’s middle school dance.

Actually, she’s trying to not tell me. I think. Or maybe she just thinks I won’t understand. Because I’m old. Or because I’m bald. Or because I’m old and bald. According to her, these are the three reasons why I don’t understand the gibberish she sometimes spews.

Right now, she’s not spewing anything, but dodging my questions.

“How was the dance?”

“OK.”

“Did you dance with any boys?”

“No.”

Did you dance with any girls?”

“NO!”

“Did anybody dance with you?”

“No.”

“Did anybody dance with anybody?”

“No.”

“Well, if nobody danced, why do they call it a ‘dance’?”

“Dad, things are different from when you were in school.”