Prom is a big deal to most high schoolers. It was to me. A bizarre right of passage of sorts. And I was damned if I wasn’t going to
go. I didn’t have a boyfriend and pretty much figured I was not too high on the
list of primo invitees. I didn’t have big breasts, genuine blond hair or a
long-legged physique. I wasn’t
particularly popular, nor did I travel in the upper echelons of the many
cliques. So I decided that I would eat my pride (of which I had little) and ask
a boy to be my date. I tried
three.
The first two,
who will remain nameless, were less than ideal romantic partners, but good
guys. I think they were both
shorter than I was. They were
neither handsome, nor witty, nor charming. Their only redeeming factor was that I had known them since
junior high.
They both turned me down.
Then, one day in my science class, I was sitting next to a
very attractive guy while we waited for our fetal pig to defrost so we could
dissect it. Maybe it was the formaldehyde
fumes, but I bit the bullet and tried for the third time. This time the answer was YES. Though he was one grade younger, he was
sweet, and, as I have said, quite cute.
Well, that little YES set the ball rolling. I had to get a dress. It cost $40 dollars and I think I
bought it at I. Magnin in the Sherman Oaks mall. The dress was white, floor
length and sleeveless. I honestly
had no intention of looking virginal, but I guess that was the effect. And, if
truth be told, it was true.
On the weekends and during vacations, I worked in the camera
store at The Farmer’s Market—now better know as part of The Grove. My bosses were a childless married
couple. He was Mormon and she was
Christian Scientist--- which eventually led to her death. They were old family friends. The woman really got into my prom
experience and lent me a beautiful white shawl. From somewhere or the other a pair of elbow length gloves
appeared.
On the day of the prom, my friend Monica and I drove to the
Sunset Strip to have our hair done at a fancy salon. The woman doing my hair used the word “groovy” and Monica
and I looked at each other.
“Groovy” was now déclassé.
With enough hairspray to hold up the Leaning Tower of Pisa we left to
don our gowns. My dad took many
pictures of me in the living room at Angus Street.
When the doorbell finally rang, my date stood in an ordinary
suit, not a tux. Though extremely
handsome, I was a little disappointed.
I don’t remember if he brought me a corsage like they did on “Father
Knows Best.” I climbed into
his forgettable car and we drove to Burbank and up the hill to The Castaways
restaurant.
Sitting at the dinner table, I do remember. It was awkward. Dancing, I have no memory of. In the car, on the way home, he
stated a “fact” that I knew to be wrong.
I pretended to agree with him.
But at that moment I made a vow to myself that I would never play dumb
for a guy again. That was our only
date.
He went on the become a very successful pop musician and
then soap opera star on The Bold and The Beautiful, where he still works. He still looks good. I, on the other hand, have not had the
benefit—nor the desire—for “help” from Hollywood…. if you get my drift.
I’m glad this was before the days of rented limos and post
prom hotel rooms. I’m glad we just
drove home and I learned a lesson about being the true me.
