I love the process of prom -- the detailed planning, the selection of the date (Will he ask me? Should I ask him!?), the arguably even more important selection of the dress (long, short, puffy, slender, strapless, blue, red, black, pink?), the selection of which questionable creative up-do I should pay $50 at a hair salon to get and then subsequently be miserable about, remove, and do myself.
To me, prom is a moving art installation rife with opportunities for creative expression. It’s the first time in most people’s young lives that they have an opportunity to wear formal wear, for one. And there’s something special about a group of people -- be they at a graduation or a dance or a charity event or a wedding -- all dressed up with someplace to go, someplace reminiscent of 1950s Americana, like the Enchantment Under the Sea dance in Back to the Future or Betsey Johnson’s ‘50s prom-inspired collection. (If I were making the calls, prom would always be set in 1955. But with iPhone cameras.)
More than anything, I love me a ball gown. Especially ones with lots of tulle, those that swish and swoosh around as you walk, those that billow and cocoon you in swatches of glamorous fabric, those that make you feel, well, like a princess! And I REALLY love me a man in a tux (I think we can all agree, every male looks a little more debonair, a little more James Bond, when they slip on a dinner jacket.) I even love Jessica McClintock. Don’t hate. I’m from the Midwest.
For my junior year prom I actually convinced my entire group of girlfriends to wear matching tiaras. Yes, really. Some (sparkly) things don’t change.