Southern Fried Angst

One of the best memories of my senior prom in 1987, besides my date (more on that later), was my dress. It was a baby blue Zum Zum tea length dress with a cool diagonal waistline. I bought it off the rack at the local mall. Oh, how I wish I had kept that dress because Zum Zum is still rockin’ the prom wear. Back then I had bigger things to think about than saving my dress for posterity, like making sure my Clairol hot rollered hair was sufficiently plastered, because apparently I needed a hair style that would withstand a hurricane out on the dance floor. I wish I had kept the dress so that I could share it with the girls, but in a fit of late teen stupidity (just one of many I might add) I gave it away. Not that I’d be able to squeeze myself into it as I think I weighed 95 pounds soaking wet twenty-one years ago, but still.

Prom was a classy Never Say Goodbye Bon Jovi themed event held in the school cafeteria. My date picked me up in his mom’s white family sedan. We posed for photos in the entryway and out on the lawn. 

I had the fake tanning bed glow. He had the cheesie moustache. By the time the evening closed he and I had had a serious parking session in his mom’s car in some country cow field off the main highway in town and I reeked of Polo cologne. This was a happy event that was just the start of a cruel summer that would have made a perfect John Hughes movie. I left for college that August and generally went hog-wild boy crazy, spending my weekends developing a taste for cheap keg beer (you know, when I wasn’t studying), finally out of the house and feeling a little wild and carefree since my mother had always been rather strict. Meanwhile my boyfriend at home finished high school and generally felt trapped in a town where he didn’t feel he quite fit in, writing me long love letters and probably wondering why he still loved me when I was generally an immature girl who played his emotions in a mini melodrama that would have been great inspiration for a big hair metal band ballad. I’d drive home for the weekends in my little white sports car and revel in the status of college life, only to take off again and leave him in small Southern town-ville.

My senior prom date may have “just” been a sophomore, but he was, and still is, an old soul. A blonde-haired, blue-eyed brooding type who typically arrived late to school, he wore a denim jacket and stood out to me in a sea of boys who drove pick up trucks and listened to Hank Williams Jr. My date listened to Jimmy Buffett and the Eagles. He hung out with the older guys from my class. He bought cigarettes and cheap beer at the local corner market. He made mediocre grades, but was smart as a whip. He did crazy things on the weekends, and I marveled at how he never got caught. He had a bad boy streak, but I knew him as a kind, sensitive, super intelligent guy. He was nothing but a gentleman to me and the epitome of politeness to my mother and he won her over immediately.

Good thing I finally grew up and figured all this out, since we our celebrating our 11th wedding anniversary this spring.