The 2010 Prom Report

Saturday was my fifth prom- my sixth, actually, but my fifth as a grown up. However, I believed, back in 1986, that I was indeed a grown-up, just like these kids on Saturday night did (in our next installment: the 1986 Prom Report, in its awkward and painful entirety).


Being married to a teacher has its perks (aside from playing out that whole “Hot for Teacher” thing- apologies to Lib); chief among them, for me anyways, is being able to “chaperone” the Prom.

What “chaperone” means for me is that I get my hair and nails done, buy a new formal gown with matching shoes and purse, and escort Husband to the Country Club, where we eat snacks and drink grape juice-and-ginger ale punch from the champagne fountain (the same fountain, incidentally, as we rented for our wedding) and stroll amongst the students looking elegant. We exude an aura that says “this can be you 30 years from now- both able to drink legally after the prom and wake up with your date in the morning, which may or may not happen to you tonight.”

I suppose that we may just terrify them- somehow transported into the future, now with grey hair and a few wrinkles and that little bit of a tummy that will just never go away, even after the kids are teenagers, which keeps your formal gown from falling completely straight.

Whatever the kids think, it’s loads of fun to go to the prom when you’re a grown up. The pressure’s off. You have 30 years of experience with strapless dresses and high heels- you no longer feel the need to adjust your boobs in your dress every five minutes, or to leave the stiletto heels under the table because you never imagined how much they’d hurt after just walking to the limo in them. You don’t have to pray that you’ve brought enough cash for both dinner and a tip when you buy dinner for your prom date at that elegant restaurant.

It’s fun to watch the kids in action, doing their best impressions of mature adults- the young ladies in their sequins and trains and ruffles and updos, with their young men in matching formal wear. Their naïveté is charming.

But then there’s freak dancing.

Ok- let’s face it. You are a child trying to act like an adult; I am a Mom attempting to be a poised and sophisticated Woman of a Certain Age. And if your mom saw what you were doing out there, she’d drag you into the car and ground your ass until graduation.

I am not a prude by any stretch of the imagination, believe me, but… ladies and gentlemen. Please. Can we at least try to retain some of the mystery and sensuality of sexual attraction? Or, at least, will you please not have to explain to your kid that they were conceived on the dance floor at your Senior Prom?