(That's me in the back with the silver shirt doing what appears to be a veloca-raptor impersonation. Oh, so awkward...)
As promised, here is the tale of my procurement of a date for the 8th grade dance:
I was determined to go with my friend Jerome, whose mother was my social studies teacher. I wasn't really nervous when I asked him, because I thought he would say yes. Instead, he said, "Can I think about it?" And came back a couple days later with "I'd like to go with someone else but if you can't find anyone else to go with, I'll go with you." Kudos for diplomacy. I didn't want a pity date, so I reassessed my options. Turns out my friend Alex had asked my friend Veronica (who also went to my church) but she said no because she wanted to ask my other friend, Chris, (who also also went to my church.) So Alex's friends and my friends got together and chatted. The verdict was passed down that if I asked Alex, he would say yes. So I did and he did.
The dance was nice enough. I wore an emerald green dress with a built-in choker that I got a thrift store. There are a series of awkward snapshots somewhere of the two of us standing in my front yard--Alex in khakis, short sleeve dress shirt and oddly highlighted hair, me in the dress with a hideous fake pearl headband, glasses and braces. And of course I was taller.
We get to the dance and I honestly don't remember much of what happened, only that Alex danced a whole bunch with another girl named Missy who was shorter than he was and sans glasses and braces. Sigh.
Seems ideal to partner this story with that of my junior prom. I was determined to have a date for my junior prom. My mom and I went dress shopping at the mall, not a thrift store as we did in 8th grade. I got a beautiful flamingo pink beaded dress with a lace-up back. Now all I had to do was get a date. I ended up asking six different guys...the first five all said no in one way or another. One of them framed his rejection in a philisophical sense, saying that if he did decided to go to something as silly as prom, he would prefer to ask a random girl on the street. Finally, I found an acquaintance who was willing to go with me (because he was a sophomore and couldn't go otherwise.) It was agreed upon that I would buy the tickets and he would buy dinner.
He picked me up in his 1980 something grey Buick, decked out in a tux. We went to Mountain Jack's steakhouse and had virgin daquaris. As our dinner came to a close, he decided to hit the men's room on the way out. He came out with a funny look on his face.
"What's wrong?" I said.
"I'll tell you in the car." He replied.
"So, when guys go to the bathroom, there are the urinals, you know? And usually, you don't strike up a conversation, you just pee. But this older guy was standing next to me and started chatting. Asked me where I was going, since I was so dressed up. And I told him I was going to prom and he asked me if I had a hot date...I didn't really know how to answer that..."
We rode in silence the rest of the trip. I was a bit miffed. When we arrived, he broke off and hung out with his sophomore girlfriends who were the dates of upper classmen. But he did wander back and danced several songs with me.
The after party was at the local bowling alley. There were many door prizes. I won a stuffed Mr. Peanut, and I think he won a gift certificate to a movie theatre. The night was not especially romantic, but I had attended my junior prom largely unscathed and with a male escort.
I guess neither of these stories are particularly scarring, but the collective effect of pursuit and rejection that has characterized most of my romantic efforts has left me a bit jaded. I am reminded of High Fidelity, when John Cusack's character talks about making out with his first girlfriend on a bench afterschool for three days in a row, but being usurped by a fellow classmate on the fourth day: "It would be nice to think that since I was 14, times have changed. Relationships have become more sophisticated. Females less cruel. Skins thicker. Instincts more developed. But there seems to be an element of that afternoon in everything that's happened to me since. All my romantic stories are a scrambled version of that first one."
I don't want to be jaded. And I'm not some Midwestern version of Bridget Jones. By writing these stories down and reflecting on them, I hope I'm able to move past the bullshit and on to bigger and better relationships. Cheers.
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