Two of my very good friends in New Wye had their birthdays this past week, and they’ve decided to celebrate their continued march into adulthood by hosting a prom.
Oh, yes indeed, my friends, a prom. If you didn’t grow up in the U.S., you may not have experienced the wonder that is a high school prom, but you are probably still familiar with it from its significant role in, oh, every teen movie ever. Like Carrie, for example.
Don’t worry, though, this prom will be excellent. No pig’s blood anywhere on the program. These are two girls who really know how to throw a party — they’re some of the ones who threw my surprise party for my birthday back in December — and I have utmost confidence that this will be a great one. The punch alone will undoubtedly be something worth remembering. Or, perhaps, worth forgetting: I’m betting the remembering-to-forgetting spectrum of it’s worth is in direct proportion to the number of glasses one drinks. They are doing a “Rock Lobster” theme, which I’m told involves the presence of a veritable menagerie of plush crustaceans and plenty of hip-type music. Nautical or retro prom attire has been officially encouraged, but I must say that my only concession to that will be a pair of fishnet hose. Wouldn’t you like to know what else I’ll be wearing?
There will be a Little Black Dress not unlike the one below (please to ignore the headless model, who is not me)
and there will also be this pair of shoes, which are by far the most dangerous shoes I have ever owned and surely will be the death of me:
If I die due to a bad fall on the dance floor, it is nearly certain that I will have to be buried with these if only because they will have fused themselves to my lifeless feet with the power of their insidious evil. Pretty, pretty evil. Also, as a point of interest, I am 6’1″ when wearing them*. Do not fuck with me.
*That’s 185.4 cm for all you people with your sensible metric measurement systems.
Anyway, can you tell I am excited at the prospect of dressing up and being all fancy? Because I SO am. In Zembla, there were virtually no occasions whatsoever to be dressed up. If a person were wearing a skirt instead of jeans, a person would be accused of being overdressed. Anything beyond denim, corduroy, and polarfleece was overdoing it. So today I am having much, much fun thinking about accessories and hair and shoes that may prove fatal. (Fatally sexy!)
At the moment, however, I am feeling extremely unglamorous, as I have just slathered myself with sunless tanner and thus I must try to remain very very still and not touch anything (including clothing, which if course precludes wearing any) or sweat too much before it has time to sink in. Otherwise, I could become all streaky, and that would seriously take away from my fashionable mojo.
Well, enough about all this silliness. I’ll be back sometime to tell you all about the glories of Summer School, but for now I have eyebrows to pluck and a dance mix to make.
P.S. If the title of this post doesn’t instantly make you laugh it must be because you have never seen this.