Assisted Procrastination

When I was a kid, too young to understand the song, Madonna’s “Like A Virgin” was a big hit. I loved the song. It was catchy, had all the high “hoo!” sounds a young girl could want, all the words were intelligible, and well, the teen idol Madonna sang it. In that day, that’s about all it took to impress. I was lucky because my mom also enjoyed the same pop music. I remember turning up the radio or the TV (remember when MTV showed videos?) and singing along. One day in particular, I realized I didn’t really understand the lyrics. Who better to ask than mom?

Me: Mom – What’s a virgin?
Mom: A woman who’s never been married.

This about sums up my childhood. Mom really didn’t do much for my social life when it came to comparing of notes with the peers in this area. It hit me instantly following the dumb stares of my friends to realize the extent of her creative definition. I guess it almost worked if you consider that I was still too young to even care about boys in any way that would require a functional definition of the word. In other words, the only boys I knew at that age barely even had cooties.

Fast-forward to adulthood. I decided long ago to be upfront, honest, and age-appropriate with the questions asked. If the questions get too edgy too early, I’ll try subtle distraction.

Last night, I paused too long.

DH, The Kid, and I were watching an old episode of Oprah in which she talks to the founders of Cold Stone Creamery (a magnificently decadent ice cream shop with a twist). Apparently, Oprah had never even heard of them, let alone tasted their fares.  Oprah was pleasantly surprised by their story and their offerings and we were happy she featured them on the show. That is, until the end when Oprah pronounced that she “was a Cold Stone Virgin, but now I’m not!”

And without missing a beat, The Kid’s head whipped around to immediately ask “What’s a virgin?”

I was shocked. I paused. Before I could even understand the question or come up with a satisfactory response, DH answered “Someone who’s never had their ice cream before.”

And in that moment, her entire childhood flashed before my eyes. She’s 7. Who expects that question at 7? In kindergarten, I had to explain that babies do NOT come out of mommies’ butts (contrary to what her classmate had told her). I had no better answer prepared and I certainly was not prepared to discuss anyrthing remotely similar at that moment. My poor mother. She probably had the same shock and pause.

I can only hope that she won’t go to school and teach the other kids about loosing one’s virginity. I’m completely aware that I’ll eventually need to set her straight on the actual definition of the word. Maybe we’ll have a mother-daughter chat over a couple bowls of ice cream. What better way to hide the looks of shock and terror sure to come from both of us than with a completely plausible “brain-freeze” excuse?

This entry was posted on September 14, 2008 at 4:39 pm and is filed under Wanderings. You can subscribe via RSS 2.0 feed to this post's comments. You can comment below, or link to this permanent URL from your own site.