My elder teenage daughter, T., has been spending the summer hanging out with a co-ed group of friends, and seems to be having the time of her life. There is one young man in the bunch, D., who has been around a bit more frequently than some of the others. He plays guitar. The other day, he was serenading T. and her friend in our garden. (Originally, they were sitting in the front, but my husband, thinking that appeared unseemly in our fairly conservative neighborhood, asked that I move them inside.) D. is actually quite an accomplished guitar player, and he is seriously into classic rock, idolizing, over all others, Eric Clapton. My husband, who is a fantastic guitarist appreciates that about the boy.
Yesterday, a group of teenagers were meant to meet T. at our house to take a two mile walk to another girl's house. Only D. showed up to escort T. My husband insisted the young man come into our house to say hello, and not just have T. disappear with him. D. came in, shook my husband's hand, and D. and T. went off alone together.
After they left, my husband started huffing and puffing, formulating all kinds of nefarious fantasies of what kind of intentions this young man might have for our beautiful daughter. As he stomped around the kitchen while I was cutting watermelon, he started shaking his head and his finger. "Yep," he tries anything, my husband said, "I will challenge him to a play off and then I will wipe the floor with that boy!" "Of course," he added, "I can only do that because the kid is into Eric Clapton . . . if he was into Yngwie Malmsteen, I would be toast."