So, I pick up my son at school the other day and he gets in the car, all disgusted with this bad-smell look on his face, and he tells me all about this assembly he just attended, an assembly that shall here and forever after be known as: The Cleavage Assembly.
Yes, The Cleavage Assembly.
Only in this day and age could there be such a thing as The Cleavage Assembly.
Now, my son is a bit young for his age. My son, thankfully, has yet to discover the many apparent delights and mysteries found in The Cleavage. Aside from Megan Fox, my son exhibits little interest in the opposite sex and remains instead fixated on killing things with his thumbs and talkin’ smack on X-Box Live. This, of course, is fine with me.
“DO NOT LOOK AT THE CLEAVAGE. DO NOT TOUCH THE CLEAVAGE. DO NOT EVEN THINK ABOUT THE CLEAVAGE.”
This from my son, pretending to be the middle school principal, sounding like Arnold Schwarzenegger when he was still terminating. The principal at my son’s school used to be a prison guard or a drill sergeant or something like that and he has the mean looking earring and barbed wire bicep tattoo to prove it.
But what else is there to say, really? You have to keep it simple for boys. It is a true fact that boys in middle school cannot understand more than seven words in a row, unless, of course, you’re supporting an RPG-7 anti-tank rocket launcher on your shoulder.
This is how my son refers to it now. Like The Cleavage is wrestling professionally.
“And in this corner, weighing in at a fascinating and flirtatious four pounds, able to hypnotize and handicap any man in a single bound: The Cleavage!”
The Cleavage. Sounds like some horror movie monster that creeps out from under your bed at night, attaches itself to your face and replicates your DNA turning you into something unnatural like Tori Spelling or Kenny Rogers.
My son goes on and on in his principal/Arnold voice and I listen, fascinated by my tax dollars at work.
Half of me wants to laugh. Half of me wants to cry. When did The Cleavage become polite conversation at the middle school level? When did The Cleavage rear its ugly head in the lower grades?
Back in my day, there was no cleavage. Anywhere. Well, maybe on my father’s calendar in the garage, but that was about it. And there certainly wasn’t any cleavage at the middle school. Nobody had any boobs. And if anyone did, they certainly didn’t bring them to school.
I think I remember one girl who had, shall we say, matured faster than the rest of us. One girl. She was very popular.
Now everyone is very popular. Everyone is maturing a mile a minute. Is this evolution at work? And if so, to what end?
I read an article recently about how the average IQ is dropping. Is there a correlation here? The average IQ is dropping, the average cup size is growing and all the guys’ pants are all falling down.
Maybe it’s true. Maybe hot bodies cannot coexist with big brains.
And shouldn’t cleavage be reserved for us older women? Why are all these tweenagers showing up at school like they’re going to entertain the troops?
I remember buying clothes for my daughter when she was little. Back in the good old days when I still had some control and some money left. Everything was delightful little cupcake dresses and lace ankle socks.
And then she hit seven years old. At seven years old, she no longer fit in the clothes in the girls’ section. We were then summarily ousted from the garden and forced to shop in the slut, I mean, Tween section of Macy’s.
The Tween market, for those of you in the large boob/small brain category, or for those of you fortunate enough to be hanging onto some of your hard earned money because you decided against continuing your blood line, is a stupid name to define the consumer market between the ages of eight and 12 years old. Apparently, some advertising executive decided this is the optimum age wherein to train little girls to dress like hookers. Funny he didn’t realize that the moms are the ones with the cash.
I couldn’t believe it. One day, it was Mr. Roger’s Neighborhood, the next the Red Light District.
I know the school has a dress code. My school has a dress code. The problem is no one follows it. Between the girls and their Hollister tank tops and the boys with their pants falling down it’s a miracle anyone has anything on at all.
And it is a challenge, to say the least, to enforce the dress code. How does a teacher tactfully address the issue of someone’s daughter’s over exposed torso area? Seems to me, in this litigious day and age, just broaching that particular subject could result in any number of unwanted outcomes, not the least of which involves the Fox 25 news crew.
And, then, of course, there’s the issue of the kids’ right to self expression. There’s about 10 jokes to be made here, but I’m not touching it.
So, what is a poor 12 year old boy to do? I don’t know. I guess he could take the age old advice and keep his nose in his books.
Or hope for six more weeks of winter.