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The tux, redux

3 min read

Spring is in the air and prom pictures are starting to pop up all over social media. My prom PTSD is kicking in. Reminiscing about the prom makes me a little itchy.

Back in the early Paleolithic, I was a carefree high school student. I cared more about grades than dating. It was unusual even in those prehistoric days.

Side note: I will defend my use of the word “prehistoric,” because, back in the early 80s, you had to take a picture and wait weeks for film to develop (my family did not have a Polaroid One Step). We didn’t have instant anything, except Cup O’ Noodles and Jell-O.

But I digress, like I do. I invited a friend to the prom and she said yes – “prom-posals” hadn’t been invented yet.

On the day of the allegedly joyous event, my uncle Mickey drove me downtown to retrieve the tuxedo. A car stopped suddenly in front of us outside the Fort Pitt Tunnels. Crash! It was Mickey’s first car accident. Luckily, no one was hurt. After we swapped insurance info, we headed to the tux rental place.

I was supposed to run in, grab it and go. I ran in and I was told that the delivery truck had not arrived. We hung out at a Wendy’s to kill time and eat Biggie fries.

P.S. Biggie Fries was not a rap artist, but a large order of french fries.

We went back to the rental place and the truck was still not there. Now, the clock was ticking. My date and a group of our friends would be arriving at my house for a photo-op in less than an hour. Tick, tock. Tick, tock. I was in high school comedy/action movie territory. Suddenly, I was Ferris Bueller.

Finally, the truck pulled in, we grabbed the suit and zipped out of there as fast as we could – in the crumpled car.

I ran into the house and slid into the tux. It was lime green with a ruffled shirt. No, I didn’t grab the wrong one. My date was in emerald, and we matched. I looked like a cross between the Incredible Hulk and a pirate.

I had a new problem. The pants were too big. Now, I had no time to get another pair. Even though limes grow on trees, lime green tuxedo pants do not.

My mom had to pin them with a series of bobby pins around my waist to hold them in place. Picture it; I’m slow-dancing to “Careless Whisper” in the gym/auditorium – it’s decorated with balloons, but it still looks like a gym/auditorium – and every few seconds, one of the bobby pins would pop open and jab me. I was a walking voodoo doll.

I couldn’t “Rock Lobster” for fear of shimmying out of my pants.

Many people look back at their high school prom with wistful nostalgia. I’m just glad that neither the car crash nor the pins left any lasting physical scars.

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