By Angela Gann
Do
princesses sweat? I didn’t think so, but then again who was I kidding?
Princesses do not have boyfriends who tell them two days before the Junior Prom
they refuse to go. Princesses don’t call their uncles in
desperation so they will have a date to the most important dance of the year.
And princesses don’t sweat. I squirmed on the vinyl seat of my car as my
mind relentlessly ran through the whole awful situation again, trying in vain to
find a spot where I didn’t stick in the heat.
I spent hours
preening for that evening, an effort mostly wasted.
In less than five minutes after I finished I could feel my carefully
applied cosmetics sliding off my face as it began to shine like a full moon.
The June air felt thick enough to swim in as I sweltered in my
cotton-candy pink floor length gown. Before
long I began to have second thoughts about the hoop skirt and petticoat I wore
beneath the gown. Of course, no
book I ever read mentioned the belle collapsing from heat stroke. I firmly pushed such treacherous thoughts from my mind and a
determined look settled on my face. My
night was NOT going to be ruined by the disappearing act of my boyfriend (the
jerk)! My dreamy thoughts of a
magical evening were crumpled, but I would not allow them to be crushed.
My uncle never
went to his own Prom, and he was honored that I asked him to mine.
He drove four hours to go with me. At
the time I realized the effort he made, but I still resented having to ask him
in the first place. He bought me a
beautiful corsage of pink fabric carnations and ribbon, and attached it to my
wrist with a courtly kind of gentleness. My
mother made us stand around for an eternity taking pictures inside and outside
the house. His face beamed
throughout with pride and gratitude. Several
of the neighbors came outside to tell me how beautiful I looked. I pretended to
be blasé, but my stomach fluttered and my cheeks glowed from more than the
heat. I began to entertain thoughts
of a wonderful evening after all.
We
drove into the parking lot in a slightly battered full-size pickup. I watched
with envy at all the stretch limousines struggling through the throngs of
elegant couples. My uncle apologized for the truck. I convinced him
it didn’t matter, but in my heart I yearned for the romance inherent in such
an expensive, luxurious vehicle. My eyes stung for a moment as I wished my
boyfriend sat beside me. I fiercely blinked away the film of tears as my anger
reared its ugly head and burned away the wistfulness. For one night I
longed to be transformed from the unsure teenager to the graceful, glamorous
adult. I had envisioned a grand entrance where I was the center of attention and
adored by all, especially my absentee boyfriend. But princesses don’t
sweat and the trickle of salty moisture tracing its way down my leg laid bare
the lie.
We posed for a
formal picture as required by Prom tradition.
Although I spent five minutes in the ladies’ room before the picture
frantically powdering my nose, my face still shone like a new quarter.
My shoulders slumped a little as I looked at the women in line around me.
Their faces appeared perfectly matte and flawless, like fine linen.
They clung to the arms of their young, virile dates.
My uncle stood beside me, his slightly balding pate matching the sheen of
my face. At least the pink and blue
seashells at our feet matched my dress perfectly.
We both fidgeted a bit though when the photographer wanted us to stand so
closely together, feeling vaguely incestuous
with his hands on my waist.
After the picture
taking was finished we wandered aimlessly, moving from one group of friends and
acquaintances to another. My uncle
remained glued to my side, always attentive.
He marred the gentlemanly act, however, when his eyes darted around and
his hands kept moving from side to front as if he was unsure of what to do with
them. He tried at first to make conversation, but the silences
began to stretch into minutes until he rarely spoke at all. I suppose the age difference of twelve years was just too
much, and my decidedly unremarkable social skills weren’t up to smoothing over
an awkward situation. My wounded
pride would not allow me to pass my uncle off as my boyfriend to my friends, so
I quailed inside every time I made an introduction. Time and time again they asked if my uncle was my boyfriend.
In high school having a much older boyfriend is a status symbol, but
bringing your uncle to a social function is not.
And they all knew I had a boyfriend because I had raved about bringing
him to meet them for weeks. There
was no way to pretend I intended all along to bring my uncle, no way to pretend
my boyfriend hadn’t jilted me. Their
sounds of sympathy when the tale dragged itself from between my teeth made my
cheeks burn with shame. One friend
said she totally understood how I felt although her boyfriend stood beside her
with a possessive arm around her waist. I
chatted gaily and forced an ever-brighter smile to my lips as I repeated the
story each time. My embarrassment
wasn’t my uncle’s fault, but I know he noticed how I behaved.
He knew he wasn’t the one I wanted to be there with me.
Despite the fact that the evening did not
exactly meet my stellar expectations, I was grateful he came.
When we did dance to a few songs, he didn’t try to disco.
In fact, he danced better than my boyfriend would have.
I wasn’t left to sit all alone feeling sorry for myself while my
friends rushed off to slow-dance. And
he appreciated my gesture much more than my admittedly juvenile boyfriend ever
would have.
I still get a small, aching pang of regret when I think of
that night, however. I sincerely
wish I could have eased his way among my friends with a bit more finesse.
Perhaps if I had been a little less worried about what my friends thought
and a little more positive about the whole situation I could have made the night
wonderful for us both. He deserved
a special night if only because of how gallantly he rushed to my side when I
needed him. After all, this was his
only Prom.
Although
I attended the Senior Prom with my boyfriend as I dreamed of doing the year
before, there were no sparks, no tender romance. There was no limousine and no grand entrance.
I expected my feet to glide across the floor. Instead they hurt.
I hated how the beauty salon styled my hair and my dress, though cooler,
was not nearly so lovely as the one I wore the year before.
I imagined my boyfriend would crush me to him for a passionate
kiss as he was swept away by my stunning beauty.
He said, “You look nice.”
Nice?! I went to the beauty
salon and painted my fingernails for NICE?
If my frustration showed on my face, he didn’t acknowledge it.
And since he had attended several Proms of his own, he was unimpressed
with mine. The whole evening he
maintained an air of studied patience as he waited for the night to be over so
we could leave.nbsp; My childish fantasy
of sophistication and romance diminished with every passing moment.
As I
study a photograph of my uncle and I these many years later, I reflect on my
youthful and ignorant expectations. My
Junior Prom was much more fun than my Senior Prom, even with how uncomfortable
my uncle and I were. Our picture
was even better than my Senior Prom picture, balding head or not.
And I notice again as I have many times before the sheen of my
heat-flushed face. Maybe it was
enough that my uncle saw a princess that night, even though I didn’t realize
it at the time. And maybe
princesses do sweat.