I went to my junior prom with the son of my mom’s friend from work.
Now that’s a mouthful and a pretty decent title for a sad, angsty coming of age movie.
But I did go to the prom with, Jon or John, I’m not sure how he spelled it because after spending one incredibly cringe-worthy night together, I never saw him again. Except at company picnics where similar to a one night stand of hot steamy sex, I pretended not to notice him.
Yes, it was like that, but without the steamy sex part and an extra dose of bad-corsages-and-strange-pictures awkward.
I’ve never asked my mom about this particular low point in my life, but I think I might need to find out how exactly this came to be.
Did I ask for someone to send out the distress call or was this some sad prop-up because my loving mother didn’t want me to miss out on the cheap bud vase with the dancing couple etched into the side?
Granted, I wasn’t exactly mainstream in high school, but I don’t remember things being that bad. I was cute, and I had excellent hair. Did no one want to take me to the prom and if that was the case, why didn’t I just rent Pretty in Pink on VHS and make brownies?
Why did I get all dressed up in that peach cloud mess for some guy I barely knew so that he could sit there all night until he decided to air guitar his way through Pour Some Sugar on Me?
I wasn’t even a prom-type girl back then. I listened to The Smiths for crying out loud. I should have been all badass and edgy, “I will not crack under the pressures of society.” Right?
Where the hell was my moxie back when I still thought blue eyeliner was a good idea?
I have a few of these look-backs in my life. Moments where I could have been different, unique, instead of falling victim to what everyone else was doing.
I suppose that’s the rearview being 20/20.
In the event I’m ever awarded a do-over, I might choose my junior prom on principle.
I would go back and remind my sixteen-year-old self that I was smart and funny, and if there wasn’t a gorgeous man-child with over-gelled hair wanting to hit the dancefloor with me, then so be it. I would tell young me with the Aqua Net bangs to revel in her female gumption and spare herself the poofy sleeves.
No girl should ever settle for a Jon/John just to say she went to some stupid dance.
My thoughts from the laundry room. Curfew.