She stands before the tiny mirror attached to her door, and turns from side to side. Her hair is not quite as she planned, and the dress is not the one she imagined, but at this particular moment, while her hemline swishes like the spring breeze outside, it is all inconsequential. She bought the tickets the day they went on sale in the cafeteria, the money earned at her after school supermarket job dwindling with each preparation for this day. A dozen stores were ransacked, in search of the dress she envisioned, and had pictured herself in every day for the two years she had dated him. A deep passionate purple, off the shoulder, and just lovely. The one she ended up with was what one may call last ditch, at the last store, and more than a little disappointing- a bit of foreshadowing of her wedding. But she still feels young, and beautiful, and optimistic and nervous: all the required emotions of a girl at her prom.
The neighbor girl who was paid to dress her hair has left, and her mother has not yet come home, so she is left with hours to spare, tickets in hand and an imagination. I assume every girl imagines her prom in a similar way... equal parts romance novel (with heaving bosoms and throbbing passions), chick flick (with witty dialogue and uber sweet come on lines) and teen comedy (with the underdog tossing about witticisms while he watches the Prom Queen of his dreams take the throne with his archnemesis, the quarterback). She is no different. On a day like this, when limos have been hired, and stylists required, and complete outfits purchased (even the dyeable Thom McAnns), perfection is not only desired, but necessary. There is no margin for error- he must say the right things, the corsage must be vibrant and saveable, there must be photo after photo she would deem magazine-worthy. But in a world created and run by the teenage mind, standards are set too high, and falls from the pedastal much too hard. She will be appalled by the drunken crowd who waltz in, loud and entitled. She will be aghast at the rumors of what girls are doing inthe restrooms, and will be horrified at the congealed blob they are trying to pass off as cordon bleu. At one point, she will be standing in the courtyard near the pillars, with the music behind her, looking into space and knowing full well she has entered a "movie moment" and her date will come up behind her and instead of lovingly embracing her, or saying the right thing, he will laugh and make a terrible joke, and at that very moment she will know. She will tell herself that getting on the court is unimportant, but will find herself green with envy when the gawky girl gets picked. She will patiently for the beautiful song she thinks of as the quintessential love song, but will realize that the horrendous theme song will be played repeatedly instead. She will allow herself moment by moment to be dragged into an insolent tantrum, and will watch as not one, or two but threee fistfights are brought outside, her boyfriend will dance with two girls who are most certainly not his date, and the couple sitting next to her at the table will be preparing for their breakup du jour. It is only in the last half hour when her caution is thrown to the wind, and she allows herself to just accept c'est la vie, and prom is quasi-redeemed. But the night ends, the limo whose side door is broken will drive through the night, and the dress will be hung on a hanger (though the hair will not be budged for days, coated as it is with product)
Many years later, when she has grown and seen life for what it is, and known responsibility and grief, and yearning for youth, she will pass a group of girls on prom day, eagerly heading into the salon, whose dreams are all but scrawled across their flawless faces, and she will find herself smiling and reflecting on her own prom in a surprisingly non-cynical fashion. She will mentally wish the girls all the best, and head home to make cordon bleu.
The neighbor girl who was paid to dress her hair has left, and her mother has not yet come home, so she is left with hours to spare, tickets in hand and an imagination. I assume every girl imagines her prom in a similar way... equal parts romance novel (with heaving bosoms and throbbing passions), chick flick (with witty dialogue and uber sweet come on lines) and teen comedy (with the underdog tossing about witticisms while he watches the Prom Queen of his dreams take the throne with his archnemesis, the quarterback). She is no different. On a day like this, when limos have been hired, and stylists required, and complete outfits purchased (even the dyeable Thom McAnns), perfection is not only desired, but necessary. There is no margin for error- he must say the right things, the corsage must be vibrant and saveable, there must be photo after photo she would deem magazine-worthy. But in a world created and run by the teenage mind, standards are set too high, and falls from the pedastal much too hard. She will be appalled by the drunken crowd who waltz in, loud and entitled. She will be aghast at the rumors of what girls are doing inthe restrooms, and will be horrified at the congealed blob they are trying to pass off as cordon bleu. At one point, she will be standing in the courtyard near the pillars, with the music behind her, looking into space and knowing full well she has entered a "movie moment" and her date will come up behind her and instead of lovingly embracing her, or saying the right thing, he will laugh and make a terrible joke, and at that very moment she will know. She will tell herself that getting on the court is unimportant, but will find herself green with envy when the gawky girl gets picked. She will patiently for the beautiful song she thinks of as the quintessential love song, but will realize that the horrendous theme song will be played repeatedly instead. She will allow herself moment by moment to be dragged into an insolent tantrum, and will watch as not one, or two but threee fistfights are brought outside, her boyfriend will dance with two girls who are most certainly not his date, and the couple sitting next to her at the table will be preparing for their breakup du jour. It is only in the last half hour when her caution is thrown to the wind, and she allows herself to just accept c'est la vie, and prom is quasi-redeemed. But the night ends, the limo whose side door is broken will drive through the night, and the dress will be hung on a hanger (though the hair will not be budged for days, coated as it is with product)
Many years later, when she has grown and seen life for what it is, and known responsibility and grief, and yearning for youth, she will pass a group of girls on prom day, eagerly heading into the salon, whose dreams are all but scrawled across their flawless faces, and she will find herself smiling and reflecting on her own prom in a surprisingly non-cynical fashion. She will mentally wish the girls all the best, and head home to make cordon bleu.
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