We spent the morning at our neighborhood Christmas party, which took place in the barn behind our house. AJ has been very excited about it but when he actually got there, he was a little freaked out. We got there a little late, just as the entertainment, a swing choir from the local high school, arrived.

The swing choir was very�energetic. They sang and danced (if walking around an absurdly small stage without running into each other too often can be called dancing) their little hearts out. There was an abundance of blue sequins (dresses for the girls; vests for the boys) and jazz hands as they sang through assorted easy-listening favorites and the requisite holiday medleys. Parents were wiping tears from their eyes behind their video cameras. Babies were dancing. AJ was lurking in the back with his eyes big as saucers, one finger inserted firmly in his mouth. He looked terrified.

Personally, I think there is a lot to be terrified of. Although my husband, who was a swing choir virgin, suggested that we stage the whole show exactly as is in the West Village. The total lack of irony would make it an instant cult hit. Although I am not a swing choir veteran � I did my best to avoid that particular genre of performance � as a music geek in high school I certainly shared a stage with swing choirs on numerous occasions. I always thought of them as the musical equivalent of cheerleading.

Then, one summer, I found myself in one. I had been accepted as a violinist to a new music camp run by a conservatory near my aunt and uncle�s house. About a month before the camp was supposed to start, it was determined that there were not enough string players to make the program possible. So they put me in swing choir. The list of clothing I was required to bring was somewhat horrifying to me. I was used to nine kinds of black. I had to suddenly switch to ultra-girly mode. I needed dance skirts. I needed three kinds of shoes, none of which I owned.

When I arrived at camp, I was a little nervous about the whole venture, but I instantly hit it off with a couple of girls in the choir who, it turned out, were about 4 years older than I was. In fact, I was the youngest member of the choir by 3 years. I quickly became the mascot. Much to my surprise, I had fun. I had had years of ballet so the concept of choreography was familiar to me, even if the steps were not. It wasn�t as hard being terminally cheerful as I thought.

My husband enjoyed the swing choir, even as he laughed at them (and how could he not?). They looked so young, so enthusiastic, like they were having more fun than we adults could imagine. They were the picture of some idealized version of high school that not one of us has ever lived through.

AJ, however, was not impressed. He did not like the music. He did not like the jazz hands. It was all too loud for him. But he liked seeing all the other children and although he looked terrified of Santa, he couldn�t wait for it to be his turn to sit with him. When it was his turn, he solemnly walked over to Santa and accepted his gift with the world�s quietest thanks. After opening his present and discovering a new game, he asked to go home immediately. We played it non-stop all afternoon and would have gone on longer had I not demanded he take a bath and go to bed.

I currently grateful for a break from board games for three-year-olds. I will be spending my evening trying to finish off my critique of my friend M.�s article. M. read the entry in which I mentioned that the title of his article is �I Desperately Need a Title� and pointed out that said title is merely an homage of sorts to my grad school habit of opening my first drafts of papers with a paragraph that read �This is the first paragraph�please write something!� I did not mean to imply disdain for your title. In fact, it is a sight better than many I have read recently (including my own). My only complaint is that in order for it to be the title of an academic article, I believe it requires a colon.

0 people said it like they meant it