Hold on to the Night of Painful Memories

Someone, please stop this roller coaster and explain to me how I made it out of the ’90s? Honestly.

I was going through yet another box of crap that I have not looked in since 2001. No joke. Moving has its perks, and this is one of them. And in my perusal of said junk I stumbled upon this lovely memento. Why the heck I hung on to it this long is a complete mystery.

Exhibit A: Etched Champagne Glass/Candle

[*Picture coming tomorrow! Computer acting weird. Picture a champagne glass with a blue candle made in it, and Hold on to the Night etched into the front of it.*]

So let’s just talk this out a bit. Our theme was Hold on to the Night. I’m certain I voted against that theme. I’m certain it made me want to hurle then, and it makes me want to hurl now. So we have our theme etched into this glass, but what? Seriously? The school decided that those attending senior prom needed a CHAMPAGNE glass? How any people actually went home and excitedly lit their candles? And a champagne glass to minors? Plus, what the heck am I going to do with ONE glass? Not even a matching set. It should have been hold on to your lunch over our cheesy theme and ridonkalus parting gift, class of 1995. But maybe that was just too expensive to have etched?

Of course, I might just be surly because my senior prom story is pretty embarrassing. And I’ve blocked out certain parts of the night, perhaps for my own emotional protection. I don’t know. I walked away from that night thinking I could have made some minor changes and enjoyed myself a heck of a lot more.

At that time in high school I worked for Greyhound Buslines in Seattle, selling tickets on the weekends and one day a week after school, hobnobbing with the hobos and hiding in the luggage claim while wackos who wouldn’t leave me alone were nicely invited to leave the premises immediately.

I was the youngest ticket agent there, and apparently it was a big deal to be asked to be an agent because generally they just hired temps. I was, at least for this story’s purpose, hot stuff.

Most of the people that worked there were characters (of the good and/or bad connotation). I remember a few vividly for how genuine they were, how authentic, how kind and warm. Others I remember for not so fondly reasons.

See, there was the fact that I was 17 and looked older. I was cute then. Dooood. I wish I knew how cute I was when I was living those moments because I thought I was chopped liver. I had long blondish hair, and though always heavier, I had a cute enough figure and, I’m not going to lie, perky boobs. (Did you all just collectively groan? I know! I’m sorry!) So I wasn’t really that hot of a commodity with 17-year-old guys because who wants to admit they dated a fat chick, right? But there was no short supply of guys that were older, in their 20s and even 30s (gag me!). I passed for older and was mostly mature, especially when it came to my responsibilities at work.

After putting up with their gasps and incredulous disbelief, while I dumbfoundedly handed over my ID for proof, I settled in. There were bumps though because not only was I the youngest, I was the only LDS person. I didn’t curse! (I can’t say the same thing now — I’m working on it though. Usually. Mostly. Honestly? Not enough.) I hadn’t ever been kissed, much less anything else. And the stereotypes were rampant in their minds as they wondered how a woman could be working and not be wearing long dresses.

“You dress stylishly for a Mormon.”

“How many wives does your dad have?”

“So are you sinning when you ride in a car? I thought you had to only ride bikes.”

I cleared that up in short order by answering thank you, 9 and only on Mondays.

So there were people there that I made friends with, people there that I tolerated and people (person!) that I had to file a grievance against. A sexual harrassment grievance. Another story for another time.

One of these friends was a fellow named Chad. He was blonde and kind of goofy looking but pretty nice. He lived in Capital Hill. With a male roommate. And he didn’t have a GIRLfriend. Did I ever ask about a BOYfriend? Nope. Did I NAIVELY assume? Oh, yeah. He talked about girls. I wasn’t interested in him in THAT way, so it didn’t matter to me. And when I found myself dateless come prom time after having asked a friend of mine to go with me but who had turned e down (I think it was apparent I had a crush on him, so he declined with a seemingly legitimate reason). So instead of (a) going alone or (b) not going, I opted to ask my pal from work, and he agreed. He had never gone to his own prom, and he actually was excited to be going with me. Win-win, right?

Except.

I paid for his tux. His dinner. His ticket. His snacks. His bus ride. Everything. Okay. All right. I was the asker, so I guess it was my duty?

I got ready to go with two of my besties at my house. We were going double with my pal Sheri and her date Toe. Except I’m not sure it was spelled that way. It was short for a REEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAALLLLY long name. Thumb? Pointer? Heh. I kid. He was actually a pretty nice guy. Quiet and funny in his own way. He was part of our group of friends, and I was happy he was Sheri’s date and we were going with them.

The eating part is a blur. I don’t remember it at all. I don’t even remember where we went! My guess would be Sheri will remember and might enlighten me.

So prom. What I do actually remember is being at the prom, a formal DANCE, and I didn’t dance at all. Not once. Not a single shuffle. No kickball chains. No jazz hands. No nothing.

Chad was visibly uncomfortable in his tux, around my friends, sitting next to me. So great was the discomfort that I took to talking more to my friends. Chad? He was busy throwing peanuts down the front of my friends’ dresses for most the night.

I was still happy though because I got to wear a big fancy dress. But in 1995 they didn’t really have a lot of options when it came to plus-size girls. Everything I tried on was either too frumpy, too revealing or way, way expensive. So I turned to my neighbor and she wound up making the dress. The dress itself was a gorgeous color, a bit bluish, a bit purplish. I was happy with it.

The time came in the evening when we were to get our pictures taken. This is when I was certainly happy to show him out the door. We stood side by side in front of the camera. One guy arranged our hair to make sure the photos were just so. The other guy took the pictures. But they had to do more than arranging with us. If Chad had had his druthers he probably would have had me take the picture with the flamboyant photographer iinstead of him, the jackass he insisted on being. The guys teased and cajoled and had to convince him to actually put his hand on my waist and hold my other hand. He was audibly and visibly pained, obviously on account of my cooties, and I was MORTIFIED that I had to force my FRIEND, my FRIEND-DATE to sliver his cold, skinny little hands into mine for 3.2 seconds to preserve that moment in history forever.

When the dance was over I remember saying goodbye to Chad quickly. I remember thinking what a waste it had been taking him and how much happier I would have been going with my girlfriends, looking gorgeous and enjoying each other’s company. Instead I was saddled with a sullen gynophobe.

What I do remember when the pictures showed up at school a week or two later? I went to the window to give them my name. The guys (the photographers from that night) were behind the window handing them out. They looked at me and then looked at each other and then back at me with a huge, warm smile and said, “You’re the one with the purplish-bluish dress, right? That was DIVINE!” I smiled and thanked them, embarrassed and proud at the same time that my dress was that awesome.

But in hindsight I wonder if perhaps had I looked back at them as I walked away I might have seen them tsk-tsking to each other about how the poor girl didn’t know that she had brought a hugely closeted kid to the prom.

Not only that but the other guys at work were MAD that I didn’t invite them. And then they promptly confirmed what I suspected since that night: Chad was a douche-nozzle.