This is perhaps one of the most humiliating posts I recall writing. But I know all of you women out there in the blogosphere must have some pretty hideous skeletons prom dresses in your closets as well. Tacky prom dresses are a feminine right of passage, like attempts at big Jersey hair and blue eyeshadow duos or your first hangover, bikini wax, and walk of shame. It wasn’t pretty, but we’ve all been there.
Dress #1
It’s 1989 (yes, I’m THAT old). I’m 14 and I had never been asked on a date or kissed a boy. I have more books than friends. I’m just a shy, pale L-O-S-E-R.
Suddenly, I was cast into a leading role in the school play. I ditched the bad perm and braces. And I started dating the play’s director — a SENIOR ! {gasp} With long hair! {gasp} And an accent!
{cue Dad breaking out the shotgun}
Late one night after a performance, he knocked on the front door. I was still covered in white hair spray and old lady stage make-up. He danced me to his car while his friend played the sax in my candlelit driveway. He asked me to prom (of course I said YES) and I finally experienced my first French kiss. (ooh la la)
I believe the next day was recorded in our family history as the day I gave my mother her first grey hair. And she will never let me forget about it.
Because of this sudden twist of fate, all the pages of dreamy satin and taffeta I had ripped out of the Seventeen Magazine Prom Edition became extremely important. Vital. A matter of life and death. I was a bookworm Cinder-fecking-rella going to the cool kid’s ball. I had to find a dress. THE dress. My favorite was a royal blue Jessica McClintock (for Gunne Sax?) number I drooled over in the teen fashion mags. It was only two weeks until prom, my mom was utterly UN-thrilled I was going, and I was desperate to find the dress.
Somehow, we managed to find the last one. In my size. I had my dream dress. And the matching royal blue pantyhose. And the matching dyed satin shoes. And probably the matching eyeliner as well. Now I want to gag at this over-coordinated ensemble, but back then, I thought I was the bomb.
A very, VERY nervous bomb.
The prom was uneventful. I was absolutely petrified. I was far too naive to hunt down some spiked punch in the ladies room to calm my nerves and force my tongue to work. I vaguely remember dancing to Madonna and trying to melt into the walls. My date was a perfect gentleman (despite nail polish and an off stuffed duck) and dropped me back home by my strict 12:30 curfew. Then he most likely went out with all his friends and got trashed. I bailed on him before the prom pics even came in. I was not ready to leap from Girl Scouts to groping in a relationship with someone far older and wiser.
But at least I can say I went to Senior Prom as a Freshman.
Which is a good thing, because my actual Senior Prom blew corn nuts.
I went stag with a couple of girlfriends. I did not have a date.
But by then I had learned that poofy prom dresses were passe, for mere children, and not my style. I upgraded to reading Vogue and Glamor. I wanted to look stylish, sleek, and as sexy as I could get away with (which was not very). I wanted a dress they guys would notice, so they would not see the giant “L” glaring from my forehead. I scoured stores in probably six to ten malls in four counties until I found the one.
Dress #2
A little black sequence cocktail dress. Classic. Chic. Sparkly. Different. It was rather rebellious at the time. I freaking loved it.
(The snippet of neon satin, lace, and crinoline on the left was much more the norm still in 1992.)
So I went to prom stag. I don’t remember much: dancing with some popular girl’s boyfriend, trying to entertain my self by rating boys attempting the African Anteater Dance in their matching pink bowties and cumberbunds, sitting in a South Beach cafe after we escaped the cheesy prom venue, swinging on a sandy beach playground under the stars….
But I still have that dress.
And I can still fit into it 19 years later without Spanx
(although a stronger bra might be beneficial).
So all those smug girls whispered about my lack of a date can just bite me.
I do mean that in the nicest way, of course.
Join in my moment of embarrassing female bonding. Do you have an ugly prom gown story to share?
Thanks to Mama Kat for inspiring this moment of weakness I shall most likely soon regret.
