When I was a teenager and going out with a girl for the first time, there was a certain protocol to be followed. You had to meet the girl’s dad and get his approval before date night. You were questioned like a criminal experiencing interrogation. You felt that Dad could read your mind, so you maintained only the purest of thoughts. Then you had to wait until the next day to see if you met his approval.
When you picked her on that first date, you dressed neatly – blue jeans were not an option. Dressy-casual hadn’t been invented, and the girls wore heels while men wore dress slacks and sweaters. Flowers or candy were common. If you were going to a movie, Mom and Dad wanted to know what you were seeing. There was no rating system for films at that time, and you didn’t need one.
Dad would always say, “What time will you have her home?” You were careful with a response. If they knew the time the movie was over, and the drive time to the theater, you better be accurate on your reply. Don’t even think about taking a 16 year-old to a drive-in movie on your first date. You would allow for a burger and shake in your planning, and off you went, perspiring on your way.
After you stopped shaking, you could head for the theater. Dad stood in the door and watched you pull away. He flicked on the porch light as you drove off, and sometimes turned it on and off two or three times as a final warning. If you hadn’t known the girl very long, you were a nervous wreck. The radio would help break the ice, and usually the girl turned it on and selected the station.
When the house was out of view, if you were lucky, she would slide over next to you. Not many cars had bucket seats. Bench seats were common, and it was great to have Miss Teen Angel at your side.
The boys had a different ritual before they left the house. My mother would always make sure my clothes matched. I was color blind, and this caused many embarrassing moments. There was the time I bought red shoes. My mother and dad always gave me final landing instructions. “You be nice and open the door for her.”
As I moved closer to the door, the advice continued. “You have her home on time, and no stopping along the way.” “Be sure and buy her something to eat.” “Do you have enough money?” I never had enough money, so this was an excellent time to look sad and just shake my head. Turning your pockets inside out and trying a Charlie Chaplin was a bit too dramatic.
There was always the traumatic experience of putting your arm around her in the theater. A yawn would work, and then the arm stretch turned into an arm around her shoulders. If she didn’t fight the gesture, you were able to relax. If she removed your arm, you had just wasted 75 cents on admission, and the movie seemed really long.
When you walked her to the door, and she got between the storm and main doors, it was a disaster. Monday at school you avoided each other and took different paths to class. If all went well, you walked her to class and accepted the tardy to your own class. If all went well by sixth period, you gave her your ring.
