All that for a one-hour dance.
My daughter was invited to the prom this year. I’ve had two other children precede her in this ritual, and finally I am able to laugh about it. The first one was like a wedding, and the whole family was nervous for weeks. Every little thing on the big day was recorded for eternity on the family video recorder. “Here she is before she gets dressed” … “Here she is with her dress on” … “Here she is pinning the boutonniere on her date” … “Here she is getting into the limo” … “The limo is driving away” …
The second prom was easier, but still pretty nerve racking since we were somehow placed in charge of getting the limousine leased for the day. When I was in high school, the only time you rode in a limo was (1) if you were a movie star, or (2) somebody died.
Now it’s the standard. There were so many limousines in town on the day of prom, if you didn’t know what was going on I’m sure you thought the Queen of England was visiting or something.
A girl going to the prom (GGTTP) has to start planning months in advance. First, my daughter and I went to the mall in search of The Perfect Dress, and I’m not kidding here, she tried on about seventy-five.
If you happened to see me that day, I was either (1) hanging clothes (the saleslady gave us a lecture when we took ten dresses into the dressing room and told me I HAD to hang them all back up), (2) retrieving new sizes and/or dresses for the GGTTP, or (3) sitting down on the floor with a dazed and confused look on my face.
But we found The Perfect Dress. The GGTTP was happy. Momma was happy it was over.
Next the GGTTP had to worry about shoes to match this one-of-a-kind-color dress, what to do with the fingernails, how to do the hair, ordering the perfect boutonniere, and what kind of jewelry she’d be wearing.
The chosen shoes looked like they came straight off Barbie. Little strappy things that hurt her feet after about ten minutes. She wore them around for days, trying to break them in. (It didn’t work.)
The fingernails, she decided, must be of the fake variety, and applied a week ahead of time just to make sure. Make sure of what? I don’t know. During that week, she went to a tanning booth. Why? To try to even out the strap marks she’d gotten at the beach over the weekend. The fingernails turned yellow, so she had to get them redone.
The result? The fingernails looked great. The tan looked good, too. The GGTTP was happy. Momma was relieved.
We picked up the boutonniere and she looked at it sadly. It wasn’t what she had in mind. The GGTTP was not happy. We took it back, had some stuff added to it, and the GGTTP was happy again.
Finally, the day of prom arrived. Excitement filled the air. She was picked up at three o’clock in the afternoon. Yes, that’s right. Three o’clock. The dance started at eight, I think.
You see, first we had to take pictures of the flower pinning-on ritual. Then they had to go to grandma’s house, and the other couples’ houses and the aunt’s house, and several other places, for pictures. Then they went in a big group to get professional photos taken. Then they met back at someone’s house to wait for the limo.
The limo took them to the big city to eat out, and they arrived back at the dance at about eleven o’clock. They danced for a short while, but really were just biding time until they could go to the after-party.
I remember when going to the dance was what it was all about. Isn’t that why they call it The Prom??
Boy, not anymore. It’s about tuxes, limos, flowers, dresses, and fingernails. It’s about putting on the ritz. It’s about being a prince or princess for one night.
Who cares about the silly dance?
