Alison and Jeff double dated this weekend with Helen and John Vielee. They all looked beautiful. Lisa and I sent them on their way and then headed for the closest bar where we solved many problems.
Unresolved was what to do about Jeff and his decision to buy 4-inch heels for Alison's first dance. For her. (I can understand how you might have thought they were for him.) Yeah. 4-inch heels. Bought and paid for by Captain Reed. He'd taken her shopping when he got released a little early from work one day.
He's no longer allowed to shop alone with her.
But she did look cute, and she didn't stumble once in the heels. Not even when she took off in a dead run and then did a twirl in anticipation of the run back to him down the aisle of the department store.
His first story was that he never thought she'd be able to walk in them or he wouldn't have let her think about buying them. His second was that she had picked them out; he hadn't. He then confessed that the theme of the dance was Hollywood Red Carpet glamour. So of course she needed heels.
They might as well have been stilettos as far as I'm concerned. I'm just lucky that she spurned the lycra mini-dress he liked.
She's 8-years-old. Eight. FIVE years from teenage trauma.
Ugh. I wanted to kill him.
But they had fun. She has no idea why I was alarmed. I'm hoping to keep it that way.
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