It all started with the pairing. In our school, the teachers get to decide who you should go with. If you're a junior girl, you will be paired with a senior guy and vice versa. I had no cause to complain in the partner department as I had been paired with okay guys. By okay, I mean that it could have been worse. I don't mean any offense by that. I'm pretty sure that those unfortunate guys would have gladly gone with somebody else rather than me. But like I said, they were okay. The problem lies with everything else. The clothes, the shoes, the hair, the make up, and the event itself. I had the feeling that in some distant past, these events were meant to serve as punishment. Then I read Vanity Fair and all I can say was: Boy, I am sooo glad I wasn't born in England during that era. The social functions would have been the death of me.
I really hated the prom. What's funny was that I went to two of them. What? Attendance was compulsory. I hated my clothes, my shoes and my stylist had successfully made me look not myself but some has-been movie star from the 60's. If we were just made to sit around until the whole ordeal was over, it would have been more bearable. But, nooo. We had to parade ourselves around the ballroom and I had to see everyone raise an eyebrow to outer space upon seeing me. No, I wasn't being paranoid. And to make my humiliation complete, we had to do dance numbers whereupon my ill-fitting brassiere was threatening to stop doing it's job of covering my pathetic breasts and go on strike. The only thing I was thankful for was I still had the clairvoyance to avoid any photo ops, therefore, no OMG-is-that-me pictures of myself which my friends can use to blackmail me with. If you happened to be in those prom nights with me and have an incriminating picture in your possession, please contact me so that we can agree on some terms.
The book reminicent of my prom. Carrie by Stephen King (also had a movie version)
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