The seventh in the series of letters to my hometown
I’ve seen so many gorgeous prom photos on social media lately, but I have a confession to make. I did not go to prom, and somehow, I still managed to grow into a functioning adult.
I did, however, buy the dress.
Back in the 1980s, West Plains did not exactly overflow with glamorous shopping opportunities. If memory serves, there was one little dress shop tucked around the square that held the dreams of teenage girls in a small Missouri town. Inside were racks of Gunne Sax, Laura Ashley, and Jessica McClintock, names that felt as fancy as Fifth Avenue to those of us raised on Sonic burgers and hand-me-downs.
Early in 1987, I spotted it.
A black Jessica McClintock cocktail dress with puffed sleeves, a fitted bodice, and a peplum ruffle at the waist. It was taffeta, which meant it rustled with every move, as if it had important business to address. Best of all, it was in my size, a rare and glorious event. I immediately put it on layaway.
Young people today may need this explained. Layaway was when you made payments little by little while the store kept your treasure hidden in the back room until you finished paying for it.
Eventually, the dress came home to my closet, where it waited for prom night and its grand debut.
But when prom finally arrived, I made a practical decision that still felt like the right one to me. I skipped the dance and went to work instead. I was waitressing at Oriental Garden, serving egg rolls and hot tea to folks, while many of my classmates were slow-dancing under crepe-paper decorations at West Plains High School.
A few of my classmates dined on cashew chicken before the dance and even left good tips.
Back then, prom was usually held in the gym or cafeteria. A local DJ on the stage, fluorescent lights overhead, teachers lining the walls in folding chairs, making sure no one got too carried away. Nobody arrived in limousines. Nobody had professional photographers following them around town. Nobody spent enough on prom to qualify for financing.
Recently, my husband and I were wandering through an antique mall when I stopped cold. Hanging in a vintage booth was what looked like the twin sister of my old prom dress. Black taffeta. Puffed sleeves. Fitted bodice. Peplum and all. There it was, waiting quietly all these years later, like 1987 had decided to circle back and check on me.
I stood there grinning, remembering that girl who bought the dress but chose a shift at Oriental Garden instead.
These days, prom seems less like a dance and more like a production. There are promposals, party buses, makeup appointments, photographers, after-parties, and enough planning to rival a small wedding.
But there was something charming about the old version. A gymnasium, a corsage, a nervous slow dance, and a curfew.
As for me, I skipped the dance, earned some money, and ended up with a story worth telling.
That feels like a surprisingly good trade.
