Leah wrote about Prom a couple of days ago. I marvelled at her picture, it seems so blessedly normal. Even...happy? I've written about high school over at the slack but not a whole lot over here. Not because I don't have any stories to tell, but mostly because it wasn't the best part of my life and I'd rather just put it behind me. I was awkward and angry, my body was already years into puberty, my mother always insisted that I have this big horrible perm because, as she put it, I pay for the hairstylist, I get to decide.
It was typical High School Angst, the type that everyone goes through.
But I never really dated in high school. Strike that: I didn't date at all in high school. I had plenty of unrequited crushes, of course, but I never got asked out. In fact, when Homecoming, the Winter Formal and the like rolled around, I did the asking. Out of the entire four years, two accepted. Not exactly an impressive average, but even back then I got that I wasn't someone who would be asked out.
I didn't think it was because I was ugly or fat, because while I did feel both of those things, I saw plenty of girls who didn't win the DNA Olympics on the arm of a boyfriend. It got to the point that SlackMom asked me are you a lesbian? It's totally okay if you are and I had to tell her no, I just don't get asked out.
It wasn't as if I didn't have friends back then - I had a tight knit group of friends, all of whom I'm still in contact with today. That I could manage. But the romantic thing, notsomuch. As I entered my Senior Year in the Fall of 1989, I was pretty set in my ways, happy and coasting toward college. I was applying to Yale with Northwestern as my backup school, I was carrying an A-plus average, I was on the Board of multiple Student Organizations. I thought I had finally figured out the High School thing, and it wasn't all that bad. I was 17 and Ruler of my Universe. And it was good.
Of course, as 1989 turned into 1990, that all began to change, when a series of decisions that I made caused me to crash and burn so hard that not only did it alter who I was completely, but it put me into a tailspin that I didn't recover from until nearly ten years later. I graduated from High School physically in one piece, but the reality is that I was in a million different pieces.
Every year when the weather starts to get warmer and Prom dresses and magazines show up on the racks, I can't help but think about it. By the time Prom rolled around, I was a bonafide mess. Seventeen years later, it still makes me a bit blue.
(I went to Prom stag. Older SlackBrother J. poses with me in our backyard.)
I don't really have a Prom Story, but I have a Prom Backstory. Which I'll share. Just not publicly. But if you ask nicely, I may share it with you.
