Written by Emily
In a few weeks, I’m attending an event that requires me to wear a prom dress. To say that my palms are sweating about this is an understatement. I had to reapply deodorant just writing that sentence.
On Facebook, the other attendants are sharing their dresses and linking to dance moves. I’m breathing into a paper bag and trying not to hyperventilate.
For junior prom I wore gold sequined prom armor. Gold. Sequined. Prom. Armor. Every other day of high school, I wore boys’ jeans and oversized t-shirts with my dad’s old flannel button-downs, so this dress choice was an obvious natural fit. I’m sure my dad was relieved because there was no penetrating that dress under any circumstances even if my prom date’s member was an actual sword. I was Brienne of Tarth, the over-sized girl knight on Game of Thrones, with a bit of make-up and an up-do.
I was just as elegant as Brienne, too.
Before the Grand March into the prom my gum dropped out of my mouth and down through the cavernous space between the dress and my body, a space that should have been filled by cleavage. No such luck, prom date. The gum stayed adhered to my abs for the duration. Can you say Glam Goddess? Proms are so my thing.
In retrospect, the benefit to that gown was that I could in no way dance except the strange back and forth slow dance that awkward kids do. The one where you lock your legs and if someone gives your hip a push, you just teeter side to side like a pendulum. I think it’s called the dance of love. Unfortunately for everyone at this prom event I’m attending, no one will get to see my smooth slow dance since we’re just a bunch of ladies who don’t know each other well enough to get our crotches that close…I don’t think.
My hunch is that there will be dancing though.
I’m back. I had to add more deodorant.
While I’d like to think I resemble Beyonce on the dance floor with fewer pelvic thrusts and undergarments that cover my labia, I look more like someone who desperately needs to pee. I have long limbs without the grace and fluidity of a dancer despite my efforts with Barre and ballet fitness. I try to imagine my arms flowing through water, but when I catch a glimpse of them in a reflection, I look like I’m spasming. My go-to moves on the dance floor are the lawn mower and the sprinkler. No one looks good doing those except maybe Beyonce but that’s because she doesn’t wear pants.
So there’s that.
To make matters worse for me, the event was originally an 80’s themed prom. I wear a faux hawk, so while the rest of the attendants will rock crimped side pony tails, I’ll have Flock of Seagull hair. Who’s that lady with the hair doing the shopping cart? Oh, that’s me. No good.
Thankfully, the theme was broadened to retro instead of just eighties. I dream of looking like Betty Draper or Joan from Mad Men, but I resemble neither–see faux hawk, birthing hips and much smaller melons. I tried to be unaffected and turned to the internet for dress inspiration, but they’re modeled on prepubescent skeletons. Clothes trees would provide a better indication of fit and style.
If you don’t hear from me after the BlogU Conference the weekend of June 6th, every social fear I’ve ever had–prom or otherwise–came to the surface like an angry zit. I became the girl lurking in the shadows, eyeing up the dessert bar, wearing a housecoat and a shower cap ( I own neither, so I probably found them under the bed in the room I’ll be staying in).
I might spontaneously combust.