Of all of the pertinent, soul-striking moments that will occur during my life, high school dances are probably the least impactful. Most likely, they won’t matter--in the grand scheme of things they will have nothing on my first promotion, my college graduation, or my wedding. Honestly, I think the first time I pull an all-nighter to finish a college assignment will be much more memorable than prom, homecoming, or semi.
And yet, every year when the time comes for several hundred hormone-induced teenagers to squeeze into a darkened gym and attempt to sing along to painful top-40 hits, I get an overwhelming urge to find a date.
I really shouldn’t care so much. I should focus more on getting good grades, as they will offer much more reward than an incredibly awkward hug at the end of the night from some profusely sweating sophomore. Even with the wisdom of a senior who has been through this many times before, I still find myself getting wrapped up in the homecoming “proposals” that explode all over Instagram every October.
I never really understood the mentality of having to ask someone in an extravagant way to go to a dance. I always see people serenading their girlfriends or boyfriends, writing “HOCO?” in candles, or coming up with punny signs, but I find it all very unnecessary. While being asked is exciting and can be totally adorable, being the person asking is stressful. The few times I’ve done the asking have left me an anxiety-ridden mess, worried that it wouldn’t be good enough or that they wouldn’t say yes. One time my actual girlfriend confessed that she was nervous I would say no, which is completely ridiculous, and I’m still not sure who else she thought I would be going with. It’s just another way for kids to try to one up each other. Prom is on another level, with students utilizing more and more extravagant props--bands, cars, balloons, actual live animals, etc. I loved being asked myself, but when it was my turn I would pretty much rather roll up into a ball and sleep for twenty years to avoid it.
The first dance experience I had was in fifth grade. It was very different from high school--same kids, different stage in life. I didn't have a date back then, most people didn't, but even at the age of ten my friends and I spent the night searching for someone to “slow dance” with. Of course, “slow dancing” required at least a foot of distance and complete avoidance of eye contact at the time, but it was the ultimate goal of the night. I never really wanted to dance with anyone--that was just weird-- but I still acted like I did because it was normal.
I’m not sure how, but I managed to find someone who’s actually really cool and funny to go with this year. I even find her dance moves endearing, although they resemble that of a drunken white dad at a barbecue. However, I haven’t always been this lucky.
The first person I ever went to a dance with was a boy, which was about as uncomfortable as it sounds, considering I’m, you know, attracted to women. You’d think I’d have figured that one out before agreeing to go with him. But it was homecoming, and everyone had a date. Why not? Luckily, as offended as he was when I informed him of my newfound revelation, he and I are still good friends. The night was surprisingly decent, so it wasn’t a total bust. He was a good date. I don’t even think I danced with him, but neither of us really minded.
Then there was the girl I went to my junior prom with. That night was absolutely legendary solely for the fact that it was completely traumatizing. Not only did my date refuse to dance with me, but she actually dumped me while we were at prom, right next to the dance floor. I’ve forgiven her for it, of course, but at the time I decided that I would never, under any circumstance, go to a dance again.
That, of course, was a dirty lie, because the second someone pulled up asos.com and shoved a picture of their dress in my face I was back on the homecoming train. It’s inescapable.
I commend the few people who stay home from dances with a bowl of popcorn, Netflix, and some good company. The art of not caring is difficult to master, and takes tremendous courage. I’m not strong enough for that, and most people aren’t. However, high schoolers need to accept defeat. We whine and complain and vehemently claim that we’re happy being single, but we aren’t, and we never will be. We only have a couple of chances to have these experiences, and even if sometimes they are humiliating and stuffy and awkward, they are a part of growing up, and therefore, they are worth it.
