Every year for the past ten, my family has hosted a shindig known ’round these parts as the “Snowball” which is basically an excuse for dressing up and getting out and seeing friends while we all try to survive this frigid winter.
It’s fun and good times and memories galore, and I should really take the time to write it all out.
But, alas, I’m slugging through a cold and I ain’t got it in me.
So, instead, I’ll tell you a story.
Every year I dance the first dance with my brother, Paul. This is probably because
- We’re there at the beginning. (It’s our party, duh!)
- We’re not afraid of dancin’! (We’re dancin’ fools! Or something.)
- The first dance requires some leadership skillz. And we’ve got what it takes! (Mostly)
So, while everyone else hems and haws and tries to figure out how to stand in rows of four, Paul and I march loud-and-proud to our rightful place: front and center, yo!
In face, I scoured the interwebz for some pics for you, just to show you what’s up.
This year, I was prepping mah face in the bathroom and, from his room, Paul called out, “Hey, we’re leading the Grand March this year, right?”
And I walked into his room and we fist-bumped.
Sing with me, Andrew Fanco: “TRADITIOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOON!!!’ TRADITION!”
(La la la la. La la la la. La la la la lalalalala!!!!!!!!!!!)