Friday, April 1, 2011
Teenage injustices, I once could name a zillion, now they elude me, all but one...The Injustice Of The Pink Prom Dress.
Our high school Junior Prom wasn't just limited to Juniors the way it is other places. See, our school was so tiny, you had to open prom up to all grades because otherwise, there wouldn't be enough people to make up a party. Get it? So, I was a Freshman, or a Sophomore maybe, technically dateless, attending with a group, when this particular injustice occurred.
I went shopping with friends for a prom dress. It was a lush, simple, black velvet sheath. Fitted like it was poured over me. It was perfect. I had never looked sexy before. With one day until the prom, I tried it on at home and walked into the kitchen...Mom took one look, and I ended up in a borrowed bridesmaid gown. Baby pink, tea length, padded shoulders with bows and nasty, fake satin roses attached to trailing ribbons down the back. Yeah, WEIRD. I wasn't exactly the girly, prommy-prom type anyway, and hooooooooooly cow, was I mad.
At the dance, the boy I liked, well, HIS date was wearing black velvet, tempting midnight velvet that sucked up the light and hugged snug around her ample curves. I went into the bathroom and tore a satin rose off the back of the tacky bodice and threw it in the sink, after I spotted them dancing, her cheek on his shoulder. Uuugghh. Gag me. (Or, I would have liked to gag HER with one of those stupid bows, rather.)
(FYI, Nearly eighteen years later, my black prom dress is now a seat cushion on an antique straight-backed chair in our spare bedroom, I don't recall exactly how that came about, but I remember The Injustice whenever I see it. The pink one got returned to it's unfortunate original owner, and I doubt anyone would even upholster a toilet seat with it.)
But that's not the end of the story, oh, no...the REAL injustice is yet to come.
Imagine my chagrin when my baby sister sauntered down the stairs, stilettos clicking, to depart for her prom, several years later, in what I can only describe as a slightly (and I do mean SLIGHTLY) longer than average tube top. Skin-tight, shiny, black spandex, ending right below her ass. Mom and Dad waved her and her date out the door, without even attempting to smoother her in twenty yards of bubble-gum colored taffeta. Nary a bow or rose in sight.
The unfairness of being the oldest daughter and breaking in the parents. By the time the youngest kid's turn rolls around, they JUST DON'T GIVE A CRAP anymore. So if anyone in my dance classes ever wonders why my shorts are so damn short, that's why. Blame it on teenage trauma.
Posted by Emily at 11:25 AM