My Three Proms

Brought to you by a gym full of crepe paper and balloons.

I went to three proms when I was in high school, my freshman, sophomore, and senior years. I attended the first two with boyfriends and the last with a buddy. One was fun, one was OK, and one sucked monkey butt.

Prom #1. Spring 1984.

A freshman, I had been dating D for most of the school year. Why? Three reasons: he was a senior, he asked me, and I felt a bit sorry for him. In case you're wondering, these are three supremely lousy reasons to date a boy, or to do anything else you're not sure you want to do. But I was young and foolish then, so we went steady, and my parents bit their tongues.

At the time, I was sure Mother and Father Media disapproved of D simply because he was a boy dating their daughter. In the next couple of years, however, I came to realize that D's being an angst tornado who liked to drive too fast on gravel roads had something to do with it, too. So-so grades and a lack of plans for the future also factored in, as did poor dental hygiene and a fondness for boot-cut polyester pants. Mom and Dad didn't truly dislike D; he was a good guy at heart, and I remember him fondly for that. He just wasn't very polished.

But a girl doesn't care about polish when her first boyfriend asks her to her first prom. I said yes. And so began the downhill slide.

I believe I've mentioned before that I am fashion-impaired. While as an adult I'm able to admit my handicap, as a 14-year-old planning for her first prom, I was not. Perhaps to subtly punish me for my choice of dates, or perhaps simply because I insisted on it, Mother Media let me choose my own dress. God has allowed me to forget exactly what it looked like, but I think it might have been pink, with a semi-western flavor. Lace may have been involved as well. Mom will remember, but I hope she doesn't whip out photos to taunt me with.

The dress might also have been a hoop skirt. That's right, a hoop skirt. I wore the hoop skirt either that year or the next. Please do not ask me why; I have no excuse. Perhaps I wore one in a school play and thought it was cool. It was certainly different, as we Midwesterners say when we mean godawful.

I do recall that it was uncomfortable and unwieldy. Any time I sat down, the hoop ponged out in front of me like a bell halfway through its ring, revealing infrastructure and undergarments. That was embarrassing, so I didn't sit down much, opting instead to stand around in uncomfortable shoes. I also had trouble getting into and out of my date's car and going through doorways. And forget dancing close; same problem, with the added drama of my skirt knocking into the couple behind me. PLUS I was the only girl at the prom, and probably in the entire time zone, wearing a hoop skirt, so people were looking at me funny all night. Oy! Let's not talk about it any more.

Let us also not speak of D's attire, which was right down at the bottom of the sartorial food chain. He didn't have the money for a tux, so he ended up begging, borrowing, or stealing a blue suit from somewhere. Polyester, naturally. I think it was western cut, which was good, because it went with his cowboy boots.

Then there was my hair. When I was 14, I had straight, honey-blonde locks down to my pert little tushy. A pain in said tushy on normal days, my hair was especially problematic on special occasions because both Mother Media and I felt obliged to make it, well, special. That meant altitude and curl. Design was up to me, but execution fell on Mom's shoulders. The coiffure process always took at least an hour, and it was not a happy hour. And no, getting it done at a salon was not an option. (A) There were no salons in Hometown, only two-seater beauty shops in ladies' basements and garages, and (B) such things just. weren't. done.

So the hair was a DIY affair. The sheer volume and weight of it meant copious pinning, and its slippery fineness made "hold" a challenge. No hairspray was strong enough. At that length, my hair was too heavy to curl springily, so it always looked lank and tired. I knew all these things going in and started the session with a bad attitude. Then, any time a bobby pin or a jet from the steam-powered curling iron irritated me, it was all Mom's fault, and the 'do never came out quite the way I had imagined it — also her fault. Fits were thrown, lip was given, tears were shed. Primping for Baby's First Prom is supposed to be a pale-pink mother/daughter bonding experience, but frankly, I'm surprised she still speaks to me. Sorry, Mom.

Anyway. The prom. We did not rent a limo, as I understand the young folk do nowadays. For one thing, there simply were no limos in town; the nearest was probably 60 miles away. For another, D had no money, so an outlay for wheels was out of the question. And my house was a block from the school, so it would have taken longer to load ourselves into it than to actually make the drive. D parked his muffler-dragging rust bucket at the gym and escorted me to the prom on foot.

We arrived in due time, if not in style, and lined up for the Grand March, a tradition all its own. I kid you not, the whole female half of town turns out for this. Grand March would be the social event of the season if the area had capital-S Society, or a social season.

All prom couples enter through an archway of balloons while their names are announced over the PA system and shlocky lite rock hums in the background: "Yolanda Smithers, escorted by Reginald Dingleberry." Each couple parades down the center of the basketball court — excuse me, the dance floor — so the people packed into the bleachers can get a good look at them. It's a free source of rumor fuel about who's seeing whom, who has dumped whom and, most importantly, who appears to be trying to hide a pregnancy beneath her gown.

At the end of the floor, each couple goes either left or right. They're directed by Miss K, algebra teacher, golf coach, and Official Grand March Choreographer, perched under the far basket on a grimy stool dragged out from the auto shop classroom. Pairs reverse course and head back up the floor along the baselines. Reaching the arch, the couple on the Home side links arms with the couple on the Visitor side, and the foursome proceeds down the court. Again, Miss K directs each unit left or right for the return journey. Quartets link up at the arch to form octets, which make their pass down the room and finally disperse near the refreshment tables. When the last wavering line crosses the free-throw line, the public departs to talk about the dresses and 'dos (and don'ts), and the prom commences.

Grand March sounds relatively simple, but Miss K leaves nothing to chance. Prom couples spend a few hours drilling on maneuvers during the week leading up to the big event. Some students are known to acquire a date, or claim to have acquired one, for the sole purpose of getting out of class to practice.

Grand March was pretty much the climax for me. D and I didn't dance much because his knees hurt, and his boots had bad traction anyway. We also didn't hang out with anyone else, since my friends didn't like D all that much and his didn't care for me. We drank some punch, ate some cookies, drank more punch, and . . . that was it. There was nothing else to do. We wandered the school's darkened hallways for a few minutes and ended up on the saggy couch in the student lounge, watching Saturday Night Live on a grainy black-and-white TV with bad reception.

Around midnight, we felt we'd put in enough time at the dance and set out to take advantage of the generous curfew my parents had set for this august occasion. I don't remember whether we went to the after-prom party or whether we thought it was too uncool. I don't think we went. I knew D wanted to find a beer bash somewhere, but I had forbidden drinking. So we drove around town and the outlying area for an hour or two, just as we did on every other Saturday night, looking to see who else was out driving around. Nobody was. They were all at the keggers, or crammed into poolside rooms at the Holiday Inn in the next town over, and there was no way I was going to a motel with a boy over night! D had me home by 2:00 a.m.

I was, needless to say, disappointed. The prom had not lived up to the hype. D, despite all my kisses, had not turned into a prince. And thus yet another prom cynic was born.

D was, last I heard, a highway patrolman or state trooper in a square western state. I believe the report also mentioned a wife and child(ren). (Source: www.smalltowngossip.mom.) As a boy, he was making his way the only way he knew how. I hope that he has found happiness now, and I wish him well.

Whew! That was tiring. Stay tuned for Prom #2 & #3 sometime soon.

Photos today? YES

Today around the world: July 27 is Cross-Atlantic Communication Day in the U.S. — and overseas, if we do it right.