After my glorious foray into eBay, I felt primed and ready to boldly tackle facebook too. One of my first friends on facebook was the husband of my best friend from high school, and we exchanged sarcastic jokes and bizarre, nonsensical comments just like old times.
Since then, my additional contacts and friends have been past co-workers and relatives, including 2 of my brothers. (One is still holding out and insisting he won’t log into a website to find out what his brothers and sister are up to. He is missing out on leaving smart-ass comments on each other’s photo pages.)
There he was, ladies and gentlemen: the one and only man with the dubious honor of having been my date to the 11th grade prom!
As soon as I saw his picture, I inwardly groaned and hoped he has permanent amnesia about the out-there, cool-at-the-time (or so I believed) silver prom dress I strutted in that night. My mother saved our prom picture as, I can only assume, blackmail material, and though I shriek in horror whenever she brandishes it at her own sadistic will, I have to admit there is something gentle and sweet about our picture. A shy, very quiet, gentlemanly baby-faced boy dressed like a dapper penguin in spit-shined shoes, and the jeans-and-t-shirts girl in a fancy dress for the first time, clearly awkward in high heels and longing for her Def Leppard rags and heavy black eyeliner.
The entire high school was convinced he and I would be married someday, probably due to the fact that most girls my age were already working on kid #2 or #3 and settling down in the cow town I couldn’t wait to leave, but the prom was our only date; we were friends first and decided
that we weren’t going to make it weird and icky. He and I parted ways when I hightailed it out of there, and I haven’t heard from him since.
It left me feeling old, hearing from him, knowing the last we talked or saw each other, I was 18, knew it all, with big dreams, a big mouth, and no fear. As I thought more about it, though, I started to smile. According to some, I haven’t changed much at all, particularly the latter two characteristics. In other ways, I am radically differently, as can only be expected with the passage of 17 years. He would be shocked to see me with 4 stepkids! Oh, and with straight hair and without bangs defying gravity by standing straight up a la Aqua Net.
I found myself wondering how Mr. Prom Date and Gary would get along, and what embarrassing stories I could tell Mr. Prom Date’s wife…then thought better of it because as far as embarrassing stories go, Mr. Prom Date would be heavily armed with ammunition against me. Fearless generally ends up translating into stupid when you are a teenager, and I lived with the attitude that since I was blowing off that cow town soon anyway, why not act up?
I can’t wait to tell Gary about hearing from Mr. Prom Date, and maybe I can bribe my mom into sending me the infamous prom picture so Gary can laugh with me at the dress, the hair, the gigantic wrist corsage devouring my arm (I swear it spanned from fingertip to elbow). And then, when I have convinced him that, no, I do not harbor regrets or deeply-buried fires of kindling lust for Mr. Prom Date, I can remind him that the past few years brought me to him, to 4 incredible kids, and who I am today.
Although…I must reluctantly admit…I have a burning desire to wear heavy rock-and-roll eyeliner and maybe a crazy silver dress for a night on the town. 90’s rock love ballads, anyone?