Oh, Prom. Where the joys of teenage existence reach ultimate heights and true colors (intended pun) are revealed to all. I have never been a dance person. That is, I don't like dances and I don't like to dance. I also think dancing would be a bit more fun if it didn't have to be done in high heels. Have you ever tried to cupid shuffle in high heels?
It sucks.
But, I digress. I generally lived it up last night as my high school celebrated stupidity. And today I dodge embarrassing pictures of myself, wash my face of all memory of last night's makeup extravaganza, and peel off last night's sequined frock.
My date wasn't all bad. I didn't pay for a thing. He had a car with which to drive us to the various destinations of the night -- Let the record show the car was his mother's. He had his cuff-links on wrong. He put my corsage on wrong. No hard feelings.
I think the worst thing you could ever do after six hours of gavotting around in one's expensive dress, hair, and shoes, is to meet up at someone's house, fall asleep strewn about the furniture like the clothes we all so furtively invested in, and wake up hating everyone around you and the current state of each other's faces.
So last night I slept in my own bed after my date drove me home at 3:00 AM.
But before my energy was completely drained, six hours earlier, we went out to eat. Now, when one is dressed in all kinds of fancy clothes, hair ornately furbished atop one's head, and flowers dispensed about one's wrists, lapels, and hair, everyone you see feels inclined to remind you that you look incredibly different than everyone else. If the person who notices you is younger than you, they will either react with disinterest or awe. If the person is older than you, they will either react with melancholy reminiscence at the best years of their life, or belittle your partaking in the biggest tradition in both American and high school history. There is no escape.
The dance itself was very shimmery, smoky, crowded, and smelled of sweat. Since, as I forementioned, I am not a dancer, my dancemates found my slight movements to be sad excuses for participating in the night's events and tried to get me to open up on the floor and really let loose. Now, whilst clad in high heels (especially with my exceptionally wide feet), letting loose is just not going to happen. My dancemates didn't see it this way and shimmied off the dance floor every few songs or so for refreshment because they were so winded. And I just sat there rubbing my feet and telling the various people I knew they looked pretty.
And it's true. Everybody looked great. Stuff people in an expensive gauzy thing, whip their hair into hairspray coated curls, raise their height a few inches, and everyone looks like celebrities. The amount of creative buns and colorful vests I saw last night is probably in the thousands.
After the dance my group went midnight pontoon-riding on one party-goer's pontoon, discussing physics and The Voice. Then we went inside and watched The Big Bang Theory. At this point I fell asleep, so I am unaware of what happened for about 20 minutes in the middle, but when I woke up everybody was picking up their various belongings: crushed corsage/boutonnieres, patent leather shoes, bobby pins, dignity, etc.
And now here I am, laying in bed with crusty hair and sore feet.
No comments:
Post a Comment