All these years later and talk of the prom fills my every blood vessel with an intense, beastly nausea. You see, the first and the last time I mustered the courage to ask a guy on a date was for the high school prom. It went down as follows. [This is also a snippet from the novel I'm supposedly working super hard on, Woman on the Verge of Paradise.]
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I
viewed my right hand in slow motion, shaking uncontrollably. I witnessed the index
finger gently compress each numbered square on the receiver, one by one, until
the seventh was pushed. As my heart readied to leave my body, I experienced
lengthy oxygenated inhalations but couldn’t exhale.
Ring.
Ring. “Hello.”
“Hi
Brad?”
“Yes.”
“This
is Robyn.”
“Hi.”
“Hi.
Um, I was wondering if you’re going to the prom?”
“No,
I’m not going.”
“Oh…audible
silence for about a year…okaybye.” Click.
Tantrums ceased 3.5 hours later.
~~~~
Ultimately, prom night was mundane.
I watched television and turned in early. All that hype and nobody at school muttered a word about it the next day either. How quickly the monumental becomes
the petty. If only today’s youth understood mom’s message during one of my moments of
bleak hysteria: “Everything’s going to be alright.” We live so many lifetimes
in one. Dreams shift, reality transforms, and emotional resiliency pushes us
through. The true misfits are the ones who don’t think they are.