During a holiday get-together, my cousin Joe proudly pulled out a picture of his granddaughter from his wallet. It was T’fanny’s high school graduation photo. T’fanny and her parents live out of state; I haven’t see the child since she was 10 or 11. In the photo, T’fanny is lying on her side, her head resting on one arm, which is languidly stretched out above her. It looks as if she were auditioning for Ann-Margret’s part in a remake of “Kitten with a Whip.” Her lips are pursed, her eyes are dreamy, her index finger is curled in the “come here, big boy” motion.

T’fanny is wearing a spaghetti strap top and she is showing more cleavage than a 300-pound plumber working in tight crawl space. She is wearing more make-up than Ronald McDonald and Michael Jackson put together.

I wondered what her classmates’ photos must look like? What if T’fanny’s the shy, tame one? What do the out-of-control girls in her class look like? What did the jocks wear? Jocks? Do they sell her yearbook under the counter? Does it come in brown paper wrapper? Does it have a centerfold? If they find me with one, will I be charged with possessing child pornography? What messages could her friends possibly write under a picture like that? “Hope you land that part in the beer commercial!” or “Someday your dream will come true and you’ll be a tramp in a biker bar!”

“What classes is she taking?” I asked Joe. “Pole Dancing 101? How to Run an Escort Service? Holding Cell Etiquette? Don’t you find this inappropriate and offensive?”

“Times have changed since we were kids,” Joe explained, as if I were some pathetic, out-of-touch old man who still squirts children with a garden hose when they walk past his house.

“Life is tougher now, kids are under a lot of pressure.”

“Who is pressuring them? Their pimps? What has pressure got to do with dressing like a hooker? And so what if I still squirt a few children with a garden hose. It builds character.”