When college conversations stall, students needing a topic typically fall back on high school. Whether prompted by nostalgia or the need to brag about how they were the star jock/the lead in the big musical/class president/all of the above, reminiscing about the good ol’ high school days is quite common. I’ve witnessed many a night whittled away by discussions about the AP classes and boyfriends-turned-gay of yesteryear.
Up there with how despicable the local CA is and who the hottest freshman is, prom memories are high on the college-convo totem pole. People love recalling what dress they wore, what everyone ate for dinner, and how their date asked them out by spelling “P-R-O-M” on four Disney-cute puppies let loose through the halls of the school. (OK, I’ve never heard of that last scenario, but I’m pretty sure it would work. Girls love small animals.)
When others discover I skipped prom, they reacted as if I’d just declared my intentions to wed a goat. The event was overpriced, I didn’t have anyone to go with and I figured playing video games would be more fun for someone who likened social dancing with public humiliation. Hundreds of dollars saved and eight hours of Super Smash Bros. logged later, I figured I was right.
After becoming more socially adept at Northwestern, and putting up with what felt like an eternity of prom banter, I came to regret being MIA during prom. Regardless of how dumb the concept is, the social gala stands as the centerpiece of high school, one night where every social group gathers to celebrate the fact they are almost done with the wasteland of the past four years. I had stayed home to unlock Mewtwo, who, for the record, sucks as a character. Skipping the dance wasn’t as terrible as paying to see Pluto Nash in theaters, but it definitely ranks up there on the regret scale.
During Spring Break, a landslide of listserv e-mails and Facebook messages spilled onto my computer screen for the RTVF Prom, a night billed as a dance with an “ironic prom” theme and a Paris Hilton motif (two years late, gang). After noticing the event welcomed all majors and not just film kids, I realized this was my chance to redeem myself for my high school lameness.
But the RTVF Prom was that Thursday, leaving me a scant week to do what most high school seniors plan for two months. So in seven days, a high school zero like myself had to become prom-worthy. The first step?
Doing What I’ve Never Done: Getting a Date
The most daunting challenge was the same reason I avoided prom the first time around: asking a girl to go with me. Thankfully, I’m less female-phobic now, so approaching a potential date wouldn’t feel like jumping into an ocean teeming with great white sharks anymore. My ideal target? A girl who actually wants to go, have a good time, aide me in my endeavors, and who will maybe take a few pictures. It’s possible my journalistic demands explain why I currently lack a girlfriend.
Two routes exist when asking for a date. One is a grand gesture towards that special someone which ends in disaster and heartbreak. I opted for strategy number two: asking a friend to accompany me.
I set my sights on Eri Okuma, a friend, an RTVF major and a former video producer for North by Northwestern. Simply asking the girl to the dance goes against every idea laid out by the cast of Laguna Beach, the philosophers of our time. No, one must set up an elaborate scene involving candles, flowers and expensive wares in some scenic location backed by a popular, radio-friendly rock song.
My majestic scheme lacked the funding found in the vapid, sunglasses-wearing realm of Orange County, but I aimed to make my proposal as grand as three dollars and a roll of tape can be. I constructed a crude sign out of two pieces of paper and wrote the Thoreau-like sentence, “Eri, RTVF Prom?” I included a letter I hoped would make me appear slightly less creepy, and a bag of Skittles.
The multi-colored candies did the trick, as Eri agreed to go with me. Hooray!
But though I aced the most daunting challenge, I couldn’t let other duties slip by.
Pre-Prom Panic
The day of RTVF Prom, my biggest worry was whether I would finish all my reading before the dance. After my friends started giving me advice, however, I changed my concerns to reflect more or less everything. My pals, mostly of the female sex, obsessed over whether or not I’d buy my date a corsage (which I had to Google to make sure I knew what it was), whether we’d go out for a fancy dinner and how I was going to pick her up. (My favorite suggestion: play “Beauty and the Beast” as I arrive at her door. Seriously, how do people’s minds operate?) I felt like the leader of a nation on the verge of war, flanked by advisers offering their two cents and desperate to know my next move.
Much to my friends’ dismay, we didn’t do anything crazy before prom. Dinner? The exotic Foster-Walker, where that night the chefs prepared a succulent bacon cheeseburger main course. Two hours before the event, I was watching Are You Smarter Than a Fifth Grader? How’d anyone agree to go with me?
After all the contestants demonstrated their lack of rudimentary knowledge, I changed into my evening attire: a pinstriped suit. After struggling with my tie for what seemed like hours, I was dressed and ready. That is, until a friend noticed I was wearing (gasp!) white socks, a fashion faux pas of grave consequence, based on the shock adorned on the face of everyone who noticed. I changed my detestable fashion ways and was ready.
Unlike me, Eri figured the fashion game out and looked very nice in a black dress. Before the two of us could go, our friends swarmed around us, cameras in hand, clamoring for shots of us together. They acted like paparazzi, or really creepy parents who call their kids every day. After the photo shoot, we finally started the walk to Evanston’s Best Western hotel for the prom.
The Point of No Return
We ascended the stairs of the dimly-lit hotel, reaching the second floor where a gaggle of girls clad in shiny dresses loitered around a door. So the RTVF Prom lay here.
Eri and I strode into the room, met by plenty of well-dressed people and shimmering ’80s synth rock. The theme for tonight’s party, “One Night in Paris,” guaranteed an abundance of Parisian decorations and banners featuring mimes fondling one another’s asses. A few people wore themed outfits, wearing berets or penciled-on mustaches. One girl (who eventually captured best costume of the night) wore a French maid outfit, brushing the floor with a feather duster as she danced.
Although I’ve never been to high school prom before, I’m pretty sure the RTVF Prom wasn’t a carbon copy. I bet most high school proms don’t include an open bar or have drunken dancers staggering around the room as a result of said bar. Plus, since the event was put on by RTVF kids (the major for people who are not quite as socially awkward as journalism folk but still weird enough to devote entire conversations to the art of lighting), there was a heavy helping of irony to go around, from the cheesy ’80s tunes to the bizarre screams during breaks in music, such as “You are so hot, I’d do you right now!” Good luck, Hollywood.
Even with limited experience, I picked up on the fact that there were plenty of basic prom elements present. I’ve been told countless times that prom consists of dancing and not much else, except maybe free food. No treats to be found, but movin’-and-groovin’ abounded, backed by contemporary pop joints and Ludacris’ horrible “Shake Ya Moneymaker.” It didn’t matter what song the emcees selected from the green iPod connected to the big speakers, however, as prom-goers let loose to whatever boomed through the small room, even Michelle Branch (I swear, if they had played James Blunt, I’d probably have gone on a tri-state rampage of some sort). The RTVF function crowned a king and a queen for the night’s festivities, even though I had no idea who they were due to my Medill background. This also left me knowing a whole one other journalism student at the prom.
Central to the event, however, was the two-to-three minute slow dance held right after the royal court revelation. The down-tempo moment allowed couples to stare longingly into one another’s eye and gave nervous, unattached kids a chance to spend a couple minutes swaying with the objects of their secret affection, all while some sappy song more appropriate for the end-credits of a romantic comedy played. The slow dance is clearly the most important part of any prom, if the end of Mean Girls holds any truth.
So, when the lights dimmed and everything slowed down, I asked Eri as gentlemanly as possible if she’d like to dance. We waited a second for space to develop on the packed dance floor, then edged onto the wooden surface. A certain level of awkwardness came built-in with the slow dance, as dancers have to wrap their arms around one another and clumsily shuffle side-to-side for a couple of minutes, a scene reminiscent of lugging a broken washing machine out to your trashcan. But that didn’t stop the slow dance from being fun (and a nice breather after furious dance music for two hours, which left me sweatier than a NBA point guard).
As everyone in attendance shook it like a Polaroid picture to “Hey Ya,” the night’s final song, I realized what prom is about. For an event hyped as the single most important evening in high school, prom really isn’t any different than any other dance I did attend during my high school years. But that doesn’t make it any less fun. RTVF Prom definitely wasn’t an accurate representation of an actual prom, but the general idea remained, and I had a great time. I danced, I hung out with friends and I ignored the already Mt. Everest-sized pile of reading I’d yet to accomplish. As my frantic friends demonstrated, people take prom way too seriously and focus on trivial details like what to wear and who to go with instead of the real important matter — having a good time.
Now with prom crossed off my list of “things I should do,” maybe I can put past mistakes behind me and focus on the future. Right after I find a way to travel back in time and earn a spot on the varsity football team.