True Story Tuesday - Yakkin' in the Moonlight

Prom is high school’s most overrated event. I attended two proms sophomore year and one each junior and senior years, and each night left my severely disappointed – and none more than my junior year.

I had worked up the courage to ask my crush to escort me (yes, I’m still a bit mortified that I did the asking), and he said yes. I picked out a fabulous pink flirty concoction that was made for dancing. I had the perfect jewelry, perfect hair, perfect nails, a great group and a limo. Life was good.

After taking the obligatory 1,000 photos, our group hopped in the limo and traversed into Uptown Charlotte to meet a larger group with which we would dine at one of my favorite restaurants. Dinner was phenomenal. The restaurant provided customized menus with each person’s name and Providence High School Prom 2003 emblazoned across the top. My chicken dish was divine, and my date’s catfish and side of lobster grits was to die for. Literally.

After dinner we loaded back into the limo and were chauffeured to Panthers Stadium where prom was in full swing. I was delighted by the look of the room and the beauty of the crowd. I was a member of student government, so I had spent the entire year producing the perfect theme and the previous day making sure each detail was perfect.

As I worked my way around the room on my date’s arm and mingled with friends and acquaintances I began feeling lightheaded and like a migraine was coming on. Undeterred I drank several glasses of water and popped a few Advil thinking that would do the trick. No such luck. As the night wore on my ill feelings increased exponentially. The rest of our friends were rocking on the dance floor while I slumped pitifully in one of the few armchairs available – frequented by those students whose parents had force them to attend.

I had reached my limit. I found my group and apologized profusely while begging them to let us leave. My “friends” rolled their eyes, obliged, but spent an entire hour saying their goodbyes while my stomach churned, eyes glazed, head throbbed and palms sweated. I very rarely get sick, but I was in bad shape. When we finally made it to the limo I flopped across the seat with my head in my date’s lap (even in my distress I didn’t forget goal 1: score a kiss or an escalation from friend zone to more-than).

Suddenly I was hit by a wave of dry heaves, and spent the rest of the ride home begging the limo driver to pull over every few feet so I could leave my guts on the side of the road. While I know that I did this with an air of grace, beauty and dignity, I don’t think my date was impressed. My insides were screaming, and I have never felt so terrible. I took off my shoes and cried the rest of the way to my house.

When we finally arrived in my precious, precious driveway I mumbled multiple apologies to the driver about soiling the creamy white exterior of his chariot and attempted to explain that I did not drink. At all. Ever. I had simply ingested too many bites of lobster grits. I stumbled to the front door without my shoes or purse. Graciously my friends trailed behind me, belongings in hand (minus one shoe that had mysteriously disappeared – probably during stop number 42 on the side of McKee Road).

Like many a high school prom-goer I spent the rest of the night hugging a toilet, although the source of my unsettled belly was angry shellfish rather than raging hops. In the morning I opened my window to see a white limousine pulling into the driveway. The driver found my Cinderella slipper when he returned home, and like Prince Charming had returned to bestow it upon me. I halfheartedly tried to explain about the previous night’s food poisoning, but given that I looked like I was battling a mighty hangover, I doubt he was convinced.

I guess I did get my fairytale night, though. Instead of my prince being Zac Efron in a tux riding a white stallion, however, I was blessed with a uniform-wearing Rodney Dangerfield driving a puke-stained limo. Not a bad compromise.