Kristy and the “Baby Got Back” Prom That Almost Happened

I.  A New Hope… Crushed

My friend Johnny and I rode back in silence in his hand-me-down Cadillac, the ceiling of which had begun to sag, drooping over us like the vague sense of melancholy and regret we both felt.  I finally broke the quiet:
 

“So… what just happened back there?”

Johnny shrugged.  “I… I’m not sure, man.  I don't really want to talk about it.”

“Was it good for you?”

“It was alright, I guess.  I don't want to talk about it.”

"Why?  Are you feeling weird about it?"

“No, of course not…” he lied, before adding: “Okay, well, maybe a little.”

The silence continued a beat longer.

“Well, what about you?” Johnny asked. 

“It’s just… I didn’t expect it to be like, you know, that.”

“Like what?”

“It was just felt all wrong.  I spent so much time thinking about what it’d be like, and it wasn’t what I was expecting at all.”

“We both built it up in our minds a bit.”

“Yeah, true,” I agreed.  “Nevertheless, it should have been better.  I mean… can we even still be friends after this?”

“Now you’re just being ridiculous.”

“Maybe.  I mean, am I though?"

We both thought long and hard on that,  before I continued on:  "I mean, what the fuck was Lucas thinking when he came up with Jar-Jar Binks?"

Johnny winced in pain. “Craig… I told you never to speak that name again.”

“What?  Jar-Jar Binks or Lucas?”

“Both.”

It was May 21^st, 1999, the last day of our junior year in high school, and after class, like the true Star Wars geeks we were, we drove to the nearby town of Bowling Green to watch The Phantom Menace.  We had been pumped to see this movie since we first heard whispered rumors of prequels being made.  I’d spend nearly everyday scouring the internet at the local library (their computers were nicer than our porn-ridden family computer), or at school, for any tidbit of new information about Star Wars Episode 1, and would eagerly report my findings to Johnny as I discovered them.  I devotion was such that the two of us went to see Wing Commander, a crappy adaptation of the by then tragically irrelevant video game series, solely to see the theatrical debut of the The Phantom Menace trailer.  I’m fairly certain whatever money Wing Commander made was based only on nerds like us going to see the Star Wars trailer attached to it.  Had we been smarter, and a little bolder, we would have just watched the trailer, and snuck into a different movie entirely.

Johnny and I would spend hours speculating on the story of Anakin Skywalker’s descent into the Dark Side of the Force and how it would fit into our respective visions of the Star Wars universe.  I would stay up at night, listening to The Phantom Menace soundtrack, which came out months before the movie, ruminating on what happens in each scene the music accompanies.  Now that we had finally seen the movie, the two of us were flabbergasted over what had just happened.  Not since Batman and Robin had we been so confused and in shock about what we had just seen.

“You know, when I walked out of The Matrix, I was literally vibrating with excitement over how much I loved the movie,” I said.  “My teeth were buzzing in my skull, I loved that movie so much.  And with this movie… I just don’t know.  I should be buzzing, but I’m not.  I'm not buzzing at all.”

“Me neither.”

“In fact… and I hate to say this… I think I feel… revulsion?”

“Goddamn Jar Jar Binks," Johnny said, shaking his head, and spitting out of the window.

“Oh my god, and what about Anakin?  What an annoying little shit he was!”  I exclaimed.  “What was up with everyone calling him ‘Annie’?  Are you kidding me?  This is Darth-goddamn-Vader we’re talking about, and everyone is calling him ‘Annie’?  Jesus, I was a afraid he would break into a rendition of 'Tomorrow' at any minute."

"What?"

"You know, from the movie Annie."

"Oh.  Heh."

“The Emperor was pretty cool though,” I said, in a half-hearted attempt to find some sort of redeeming quality.  "It was neat watching him manipulate his way into power."

“Yeah, he was alright,” Johnny conceded.  “Darth Maul was pretty cool too, but they fucking killed him off!  What is Lucas thinking?”

“Ugh, I know.”

We rode in silence before I barked.  “Fucking Jar-Jar Binks, man!  Ugh!  Goddamn it!  Dude… we got to stop over at Cici’s Pizza to more adequately recover from this,” I said.  Cici’s Pizza was an all-you-can eat buffet that we frequented nearly every time we went to Bowling Green to hang out.  It was super cheap and tasted adequate for two teenage guys with no standards and crushed spirits.  It would become the place for me to go during college, whenever I began feeling stressed or depressed, and just needed to drown my sorrows with cheap pizza.  It helped that it happened to be right next to the local comic book store, The Great Escape.  It would become my temporary, incredibly unhealthy Fortress of Solitude, and a place that I would visit a lot during my final tumultuous year in high school.

II. Home Improvement

During my Junior year of high school, my parents decided to take a bite of the good life and build their own house.  Even as a teenager, I knew this was a monumentally bad idea.  I tended to be more privy of my parent’s financial situation than I wanted to be, what with the many times my mom would go on a tirade about it whenever dad was out of town “living it up” on a business trip.  

“Can you believe your father went off to the Bahamas and left us here without money to pay the water bill?”  My mom would frantically scream, while running stoplights driving to the bank to make a deposit before it closed, and the check she wrote to the water company bounced.  “What are we supposed to do for dinner?  I don’t have any money for dinner – do you have any money for dinner?  Did dad give you money for dinner, because he didn’t give me any money for dinner!   I sure hope he’s having fun ‘business’ trip, leaving his family with no water and no dinner!”

She’d call dad when we got home.  “So, I don’t have any money for dinner.  What are we supposed to do?”

“Um, do you know how much this phone call is costing right now?"  My dad tended to add a lot of "ums" and "uhs" to his sentences when he was speaking in his clipped, slightly condescending, angry voice.

"What are we supposed to eat, Danny?"

"Uh, well, there’s bread, peanut butter, and jelly isn’t there?”

“You want us to eat peanut butter and jelly for dinner?  Are you serious?”

“Um, there’s also Ramen noodles!  You're not going to starve.  I got to go now.  This call is costing us money!”  Click.

And these people were building a house.  

They reached out to my uncle Scott, who was a successful contractor, to build the house, got a mortgage from the bank, and within months I found myself standing on the foundation of a new home, with high school crush, Erin, standing next to me. 

“It seems so small without walls,” I casually observed, kicking a pebble off the hardwood floors.  "It's hard to believe we're all going to somehow fit in here." 

“I can’t believe you guys are actually building a new house,” she said.  “I’m going to kind of miss the old one.”

“This one is going to have a hot tub,” I pointed out, raising an eyebrow suggestively.  “You can come over any time to try it out.”

She shoved me playfully.  “Shut the hell up!”  Then after a moment:  “Are you really getting a hot tub?"

“Well, it’s more like a bath tub with water jets.  It’s still pretty fancy, and there’s room for two, but we’d have to figure out some sort of crazy, advanced Kama Sutra pose to make it work.”

“I’m going to kick your ass in a minute,” Erin warned while laughing.  Things between Erin and I had gotten considerably better since The Florida Incident.  We had gone from chilly silence in the hallways, to the occasional joke as we passed by each other’s locker, to full on conversations after school.  This trip to the new house was the first time we had hung out in at least a year.

“Can you believe we’re going to be Seniors next year?” Erin asked.  “Then we finally leave that shitty school.  Where are you going after we graduate?”

I shrugged.  “I haven’t put much thought into it.  Mr. Stinson is helping put together a portfolio for the Art Institute of Chicago.”

“Wow, that’d be awesome.”

“Eh.  I’m probably not good enough.  I’m sure I’ll just end up going to WKU or something.”

“Cool, well, that will make two of us!”

I rolled my eyes. “Oh, great that makes me feel better.” She lightly kicked my shin, which still stung quite a bit.  “Ow, son-of-a-bitch!”

“I warned you,” she chided.  “Do you have a hot date lined up for prom?”

“That’s, like, a year away.”

“So, you can still ask someone to prom a year in advance.”

“Are you offering?”

“Sorry, I’m going with Nathan,” she said apologetically.  

“Then the answer is no.  Besides, I’ve got too many other things to worry about.  I’m sure I’ll figure something out about prom.”  I didn’t have a clue who I would take to prom.  Quite frankly, Erin was the only girl in school I really talked to.  Nobody else gave me the time of day, so it was highly doubtful any of them would go to prom with me.  However, I actively ignored any thought of prom, as the last thing I needed was to obsess over a bullshit dance I probably wouldn’t even go to.

“So where’s your room going to be?” Erin asked.

I pointed to a space that had been marked off as the guest bathroom.  “See that small space there?  Yeah, that’s going to be my room.  It’s cramped, but the view is great.”

Erin laughed.  “You’re such a dork.”  

***

My parents completed the new house and we were moved in a little bit before my glorious trip to Las Vegas.  It was a modest, 2-story house, with fancy hardwood floors, a working fireplace, two regular bedrooms, a master bedroom, and three bathrooms (my parent's bathroom being the one with the aforementioned hot tub).  It was strategically built in a new subdivision on the outskirts of town, right by the country club that my parents had joined mere months before they set about to build the house.  

It was, by far, the nicest house we had ever lived in, and I couldn’t help but be mostly impressed that my parents had somehow pulled it off.  

 How they pulled it off, though, became quickly evident as we got moved in, and I began to notice many portions of the house that were unfinished.  As the house had gotten closer to completion, my dad began to chaff at being beholden to his much younger brother-in-law, and he became convinced that he wasn’t getting his money’s worth.  To be fair, my uncle didn’t get to where he is by giving out discounts to friends and family.  My mom’s family has always been pragmatic to the point of Scroogery when it comes to business matters.  Since they come from poverty, you would think that would make them more compassionate to money matters... but no.  In fact, it seems to make them all the more stingy.  They aren’t beyond a kind act, but you better believe they will ask for a receipt so they can write it off their taxes.

So my dad, convinced he could do it cheaper, decided to finish the house himself.  My dad has little to no experience in matters of home improvement.  This resulted in a kitchen floor with multiple cracked tiles; one of the upstairs bathrooms being unusable, due to botched tiling in the shower, as well as tiling equipment that sat in the tub like a forgotten project until well after I left for college.  All things considered, though, the house was basically livable, and my parents even splurged to buy a big screen TV for the new living room.  

Life was being pretty good to ol’ Craig Williams... which naturally made me very suspicious about just what the hell Life was up to...

 

III. A Severe Case of Senioritis

When I think of high school, I remember very little that was eventful or good.  I tend to focus on the negative aspects of the high school experience.  In fact, I'm in the unfortunate habit of focusing on the negative aspects of most of my life, hence the purpose of this book: to prove to myself, in black and white writing by my own hand, that my life, while full of regretful moments, was certainly not all bad.  When it came to high school, my memories are of time like when I'd be forced to stop an art project to attend a pep rally that usually amounted to watching the team play itself in a scrimmage.  That memory, though, is counterbalanced with the good memory of taking Driver's Ed, which was a class that mostly consisted of driving our teacher around town so he could run errands, and then eating lunch at a restaurant of our choice (usually Taco Bell).   

I remember making a noble effort to get into shape by learning to lift weights with my friend Johnny in the school weight room.  That was actually a positive memory, even though I was also lifting weights to prepare for high school football, only to have a panic attack and quit the first day of practice.  I was walking into the gym with Johnny, standing in line to get our equipment, and something about it, either the smell of the equipment, or the feel of the helmet in my hands, made me have an epiphany:  “Wait a minute, I hate this!  I can’t go through this again!”  I apologized to the coach, handed him my helmet, and got the hell out of there.  I remember my dad, in a desperate attempt to change my mind, offered to buy me a car, even going so far as to drive it home, if I played football, which caused me to have another panic attack, scream a resolute “NEVER!”, and shut myself up in my bedroom.

Unpleasant memories like that are a dime a dozen.  However, there are a handful of positive high school memories, most of which took place my senior year.  I began writing for the school newspaper, fulfilling a goal I failed to attain in my job at the real town newspaper.  I was the official school movie critic, and I got to see any movie I wanted at the school’s expense.  My movie reviews, though surprisingly well written for a high school student, totally betrayed my ignorance when it came to film.  I loved movies, and considered myself more knowledgeable about them than most, but good Lord… after having later gotten a minor in Film Studies, and expanding my cinematic awareness, I shudder a bit when reading these reviews now… here’s an example from my review of Any Given Sunday:

I will never understand the appeal of Oliver Stone, who is one of the most overrated directors ever.  His movies range between artsy-fartsy schlock (Natural Born Killers), and boring misrepresentations of history (JFK).

The most sinful part of this particular extract is that I had never seen either Natural Born Killers or JFK.  I had summarily dismissed two movies, considered classics by many, on no basis whatsoever.  My occasional, insanely-idiotic declarations aside, my reviews were somewhat popular, as nobody had ever thought to review movies in the school paper.  It was in large part due to my movie reviews I began hanging out with a new group of friends, two of which were in my grade-level and two that were underclassmen.  There was Derek, who I was already friends with and, in fact, ran a Mystery Science Theater 3000 fan site with, and then there was Kenny, Smiley, and Brad.  

Brad was the resident genius of the school, though he would modestly decline such a label.  His intelligence, coupled with his sense of humor, positive outlook, and easy-going nature, sort of reminded me a real life Ferris Bueller (at this point, he’d be blushing).  With his knowledge of computers, he could run circles around the school’s resident tech teacher, called "Mr. B" at the school, much to his consternation.  Brad once recorded a hilarious spoof of Eminem’s “The Real Slim Shady”, renamed "The Real Tim Shady" (Tim being our teacher's first name), which was a rap song that lovingly mocked the hapless tech ed teacher and his easygoing (some would say "lazy") method of "figure-it-out-yourself" teaching.  At one point, he even made Mr. B into a virtual, Tamagotchi pet, where if you click a button, a picture of Mr. B's face would hatch out of an egg, and when you feed him, he'd loudly scream the word "PROTEIN!"  Needless to say, the real life Mr. B was not flattered by Brad's attention.  

The thing that stuck out about this group of friends is that they’d regularly go to Nashville to hang out, as opposed to my usual haunt of Bowling Green, which was inconceivable to me at the time.  Nashville seemed so intimidating to me at the time, and I wouldn’t even know what to do when I got there.  So hanging out with these guys in Nashville felt absurdly grandiose.  We’d mostly go to the Opry Mills mall, which is an obscenely gigantic mall that is bigger than any mall has any right to be.   

I’d always feel kind of self-conscious hanging out with these guys, because they all seemed to have money to spend on whatever they wanted, while I was so broke I had no business tagging along in the first place.  They would usually leave the mall having bought some sort of new expensive gadget, or video game, while I would be leaving with the red-ass (financially speaking).  Budgetary disparities aside, I had a lot of fun on these jaunts to Nashville, and hanging with these guys really helped to bring me back out of the anti-social shell I had constructed around me since the "The Florida Incident".

Too bad it would all blow up in my face in college... but I'll tell that story later.

***

Speaking of Tech Ed class, my senior year curriculum was made up almost exclusively of vocational school classes.  The vocational school was a separate entity from the high school proper, which meant that it was run independently and had more relaxed policies.  The classes were super easy, and if we finished our work quickly enough, we were allowed to play computer games, which was usually team multiplayer Quake versus another vocational class.  This made vocational school the place to be for slackers like myself.  I took Tech Ed class almost every year, and would spend class either watching DVDs in the video editing bay, playing video games I had downloaded from the internet, or watching Flash animations on Newgrounds.com (which was Youtube before Youtube).  

So for my last year of high school, I got lazy and cocky.  With the exception of Algebra 2, a ridiculously  difficult class, made all the more so by a nightmarish harpy for a teacher who hated my guts, my schedule was loaded down with “bunny classes”. When it comes to my senior year of high school, it can best be summed up with the image of me leaning back in my chair, my head cradled in my hands, and my feet perched on the desk.

However, there were two pressing problems I was actively trying to ignore:  first, who would I take to Prom?  And a distant second:  what the hell was I going to do with my future?

IV. My Prom Idea

When it came to the first problem, I was in a bit of a quandary.  All the girls I had crushed on since middle school were either not interested in my existence, much less going with me to Prom, or already had dates lined up.  I had no back-up plan, no list of girls to contact outside of school.  If worse came to worse, I seriously considered asking my parents to hire an escort from out of Nashville to go with me.  Hell, if they were willing to buy me a prostitute in Vegas, getting an escort isn't asking that much more.  Some of you my be chuckling, thinking this a joke, but no, I seriously looked into this option, going so far as to look up escort services in Nashville and figure out prices.  

I don’t know why it was so important to me that I had a date for prom.  It felt like a test.  In my mind, a typical high school male would have lost his virginity by Senior year or, at the very least, kissed one.  I had achieved none of those things.  I hadn't even taken a girl out on a date.  I was woefully under experienced in matters of love, but was able to ignore this deficiency for most of high school, but because of Prom, I would finally have to face the truth:  my romantic life in high school was a terrible failure.  Even though I had made sufficient grades to graduate high school, as far as life was concerned, I might as well be in Special Ed.  My worst fear was being the only dateless person at Prom.  I could see it now:

 (INT. SCHOOL PROM - NIGHT.  CRAIG ENTERS, WEARING A GARISH, CHEAP PASTEL ORANGE TUX IN AN ILL THOUGHT OUT ATTEMPT TO APE THE MOVIE DUMB AND DUMBER.  HE APPROACHES THE ANNOUNCER AT THE FRONT ENTRANCE.)

ANNOUNCER:  "Name?"

CRAIG:  "Craig Williams."

ANNOUNCER (into microphone):  "Announcing Craig Williams, with his date..." (leans to Craig)  "...where's your date?"

CRAIG:  "I... (clears throat)  ...I don't have a date... tonight." (coughs)

ANNOUNCER (Nods sympathetically and talks into microphone):  "Announcing Craig Williams, who is DATELESS!"

(ENTIRE GYMNASIUM OF STUDENTS GO "AWW" AND THROW EGGS AT CRAIG, WHO RUNS AWAY CRYING.)

CUT TO TITLE CARD:

HE THEN COMMITTED SUICIDE.  THE END.

After weeks of entertaining ridiculous scenarios of this sort,  my anxiety about Prom fomented into resentment toward the entire event.  Our class would have periodic Prom meetings in the cafeteria to discuss what the theme would be and where we’d have it.  Meanwhile, I’d spend that time quietly wringing my hands, inwardly fuming with bitterness that I lived in a world where seemingly everybody was allowed to love, to date, to attend dances, to kiss, to have sex, but me; only I was denied these basic human pleasures.  This deluded, self-pitying, somewhat Grinch-like state of mind would be a familiar "Swamp of Sadness" I would sink into many times in my adult life whenever neglected, or rejected, by the opposite sex.

 

I felt desperate, cornered, and so my natural reaction was to do something - anything!  Since desperately asking out every girl I was even moderately attracted to was out of the question, I struck upon another idea:  the best way to deal with Prom is to make a mockery out of it.  I had the perfect idea how.

***

“A ‘Baby Got Back’ themed prom,” I announced to my friends, Johnny and Matt, in Art class. 

They both gaped at me.

“As in Sir Mix-a-Lot’s song, ‘Baby Got Back’?” Matt inquired.

I simply nodded.

They looked at each other before Matt exclaimed: “That’s brilliant!  Oh my god, that was would be hilarious!”

“I know, right?” I replied.  “We could have giant, paper machete butts everywhere, and the lyrics could be stenciled all fancy-like on the champagne glasses.  I mean, could you imagine how funny it would be to see those lyrics in fancy cursive?”

You, dear reader, don’t have to imagine:

…when a girl walks an itty bitty waist, and that round thing in your face, you get sprung…

Russellville High School 2000 Prom

The more I talked about it with my friends, the more intoxicated I became on the whole idea.  The way our class was to decide the theme was by vote.  There were already themes to choose from, all of which were derived from banal romantic movies or pop songs of that year, but there was a space for write-in themes.  I made it my mission to spread the word around to vote for “Baby Got Back” as the write-in theme.  Everybody I talked to was on-board, even people I never particularly got along with.  The absurd appeal of the idea was undeniable!

 ***

“The votes have been tallied,” announced the head of the Prom committee at the next meeting.  “The Prom theme will be What Dreams May Come.”

“What?” I exclaimed and stood up.  “Objection!”

“This isn’t a courtroom, Craig.”

“Whatever.  I know, for a fact, that ‘Baby Got Back’ was the winning theme!”

“We are not having a prom about butts,” the committee leader replied curtly.  “That isn’t what prom is about.  The winner is What Dreams May Come.”

“How is that more appropriate?  It’s a mediocre movie about death and suicide starring Robin Williams!” I growled to myself as I sat back down.  “Democracy just doesn’t work!”

 

It looked like I was staring down the barrel of yet another high school experience that would leave more gaping, infected emotional scars on my psyche.

V. Pressure

As if Prom weren’t enough, the lingering menace of life after high school was also nipping at my heels.  My mom began pestering me to apply for scholarships, which I found to be a tedious, pointless endeavor.  I wasn’t a very exceptional student, and didn’t think my ability to do the bare minimum, yet make it seem like slightly above average work, was going to inspire anyone into giving me free money.  My mom believed differently.  She’d meet me at home with a handful of scholarships she wanted me to apply for, which was annoying considering all the homework I already had to do on top of it.

There was also the small matter of not knowing what college I was going to after high school.  There weren't many options.  I had sent my portfolio to the Art Institute of Chicago and, much to my surprise, got accepted.  As I watched the videotape they had sent to introduce me to what a year there would be like, I began to feel incredibly nervous about the prospect of living so far from home with no experience at living in a huge city like Chicago.  

I didn’t feel like my skill in art was worthy of going to such a prestigious school.  I began to feel sick to my stomach thinking about having my work critiqued by peers who were leagues better than me.  I would never draw again if I went to such a school only to thoroughly learn how much I sucked.  As it turned out, though, I needn’t have bothered concerning myself with whether or not I’d go, since the school was far too pricy.  I probably could have gotten a student loan, but I let the expense of the school be my excuse for not going, which was far more comfortable to live with than cowardice.  It stands as one of the most regretful choices of my life.

My dad was trying to persuade me into going to the University of Louisville, and apply for their UPS scholarship program.  UPS had a program where a college student can potentially get school paid for, in exchange for working third shift in one of the warehouses.  My dad was convinced it was a no-brainer opportunity, much like how he would try to talk me into military service so I'd be eligible for the GI Bill.

“For the last time, dad, I do not want to do the stupid UPS program!” I objected.

“Are you kidding me?” he asked, incredulous.  “It’s a great program!”

“Yeah, third shift,” I replied.

“What’s wrong with that?”

“Between that, and class, when would I ever have time to, you know, sleep?  Don't humans usually need sleep?”

He rolled his eyes.  “Well, if there were a sandwich involved, you’d make the time.”

"A sandwich would probably sweeten the deal," I acknowledged, half-mocking and half totally sincere.

I began associating U of L with these heated arguments with my dad, and so completely dismissed going there out of sheer spite.  These arguments with my dad about college, and the arguments I'd have with mom about scholarships, began to happen with more frequency and with more vitriol.  All of this planning for the future began to overwhelm and frey at my nerves, to the point where I had become more prone to violent mood swings and sudden fits of rage.  I would spend my waking hours snapping angrily at friends and family alike, then spend my sleeping hours just stewing in my bed with so much hatred that I constantly soaked my sheets in sweat.  The pressure of life after high school had made me into a toxic cloud of negativity, so much so that it began taking a physical toll.

I went to see a doctor for my annual physical.  He took my blood pressure, looked at me with an expression of alarm, and took it again.  He removed the stethoscope from his ears and looked down at me above his bifocals in that condescending way all doctor's must have learned in med school. 

“Young man, your blood pressure is just... it's through the roof,” he said.  “If you were a 40-year-old man, you would have probably suffered a heart attack or stroke long ago.  In fact, you would probably be having one right now.”

I didn’t know what to say about that.  “I… I’ve just been really stressed lately.  You know, Prom and stuff.”

“Well, get unstressed, and fast,” he said, and began scribbling a prescription.  “Also, pick up this medication.  This is a serious matter.  You’re never too young for a heart attack, especially with blood pressure this high.  Fill this prescription today!”  He tore off the prescription and handed it to me.  I somberly told my mother about what he’d said, and we picked up the meds immediately.  This new development made me feel even worse.  Not only was I still dateless for prom and uncertain about my future, but now, as it turned out, I may not have a future to be worried about.  Perfect.  There was a part of me that wanted my heart to just dramatically explode and get it over with.  

***

It was late at night, and time to take my meds.  I stared with barely contained rage at the pill bottle, squeezing it in my hand.  I looked at my reflection in the mirror, disgusted by what I saw, and it just made me angrier.  Then I stared closer, into my own eyes, and I was struck by the sudden sense of sadness I felt.  It was like a void had been open in my chest and I could only just now feel it.  I wanted to cry.  With tears in my eyes, I walked outside to the back deck and threw the medication into the woods.  There had to be a better way.  This was a solution for the symptom, not the main problem.  There was a deeper issue, a root cause for all of these tumultuous and angry feelings, and if I wanted to live through my 20s without suffering catastrophic heart failure, I needed to get to the bottom of it. 

VI. Discovering My Higher Self

My family has never been very spiritual.  Mom has tried a few times to bring us to Jesus, pushing the family to go to church every now and then, but those ventures in religion would usually come to a quick end because my dad preferred to spend his Sundays golfing (thank god).  My mom isn't super religious, but has always felt guilty for not having anything in the way of spiritual guidance to offer.  However, it was that very lack of pressure that led me into finding my own spirituality.  I had come to resent the arrogance of Christianity, not to mention it's history of cruelty and violence.  The more I researched, the more the same could be said for other religions as well, except for one:  Buddhism.  The more I learned about it, the more it made sense to me as a valid spiritual path, as its history is unblemished with genocide, racism, or most forms of oppression committed in its name.  As a high school teen, though, Buddhism was a passing fancy; a nice notion that I simply didn't have the time, or inclination, to explore further.   

One Saturday mom came home from shopping in Bowling Green, and handed me a book about meditation.  It was titled A Practical Guide to Buddhist Meditation, by Paramananda.  “I saw it and thought it might help with your stress,” she explained.  I crooked my eyebrow and thumbed through the book.  It was just thin enough to not feel like a huge investment of time, and I meditation always struck me as a useful practice, if one could develop the patience for it.  It certainly couldn’t hurt to give it a shot.  With nothing else to do that day, I ran up to my room, locked the door, and got to it.  

I read the first chapter, which went over the instructions for correct breathing while meditating, and had instructions to use these breathing exercises to increase “loving awareness”.   Most of the stress in our lives comes from the tendency to focus too much on our own problems, so that we ignore the suffering of others, or even unknowingly cause the suffering of others.  The point of this meditation was to increase awareness of one’s own thoughts and how one's actions impact the lives of other people.

I began the breathing exercises, counting each breath up to ten, and starting over.  I focused my attention on my big toe, imagining warmth there, which spread as my attention spread to other parts of my body.  Once my entire body was cocooned with my awareness, I breathed the warmth into in my lungs, imagining it as a harmless mist that my lungs absorbed like oxygen, which it then went into my blood stream, traveling to every corner of my insides.  When I exhaled, my awareness then traveled through my bedroom, and beyond.  Pretty soon I was in a state of serenity that I had never known before.  It felt incredible.  All of my worldly concerns melted away into a puddle on the floor.  Life, which had become so complicated as to threaten my health, was now a simple matter of breathing in and breathing out; nothing more, nothing less. 

When I finished, I felt lightheaded and euphoric.  I walked downstairs to the kitchen to get something to eat.   
My mom suddenly yelped, “A spider!  Kill it!  Kill it!”

I looked on the floor to see a spider, just going about its business and paying us no mind.  Considering my fear of spiders, usually my reaction would be to kill it on sight, or run screaming out of the house, while throwing obstacles behind to obstruct the spider from giving chase.  Instead I considered the spider.  It was just living its life, and was a little too bold for its own good by wandering into broad daylight, in the sight of humans that, against all reasonable logic, are more afraid of it than it is afraid of them.  I felt bad for the spider and had a sudden, almost desperate urge to help it.  “Don’t kill it!"  I said, outraged as if it were a newly born kitten.  “Here, I’ll take care of it.”  I got a bowl, placed the bowl on top of the spider, carefully slid a small saucer plate underneath, then walked it outside and let it go.
 

Oh my god, I thought.  This meditation stuff actually works!  It may seem silly, but this was a profound moment of realization for me.  I was so constantly wrapped up in my own affairs, and up in my own head, that the plight of a spider, much less other humans, was usually not even on my radar, unless it directly affected me.  I’m not saying that I became enlightened that day, otherwise this would be the final chapter of my book.  No more perpetual confusion, I get it now - I'm done!  No.  It didn’t take long for that mindset to wear off, like deodorant melting under my arm, and for me to become a self-absorbed, awkward shithead again.  However, something in me did change that day.  I was a little more conscious of the damage my actions and words had on the people around me.  Meditation had opened a door that could never be closed again.

***

I began meditating nearly every day, following the instructions of the book to the letter.  I learned a meditation to increase “loving compassion”.  I closed my eyes, breathing carefully to clear my mind.  Once clear, I began conjuring up images of the people in my life, from family, to friends, to co-workers (even Bearded Lady), to casual acquaintances.  As each image appeared in my mind, I’d repeat the mantra: “I love you and I wish you well.”  I would do this even with people whom I considered my enemies, or people who had wronged me in some fashion.  It was in this way I would actually consider the idea that nobody was truly my enemy, unless I chose to perceive them that way.  

I began a meditative exercise of going to bed at night, imagining an internal dialogue with the part of my psyche I considered my “Higher Self”.  The idea is that if one can envision themselves as a higher being, than one can someday attain that higher mindset.  I suppose, in some fashion, it was a lot like praying, except I didn’t ask for anything except advice on whatever life problem I happen to be going through.  I still practice this exercise to this day, and have made some of the better choices in my life because of it.

I would imagine sitting with my Higher Self as my twin in nearly every way, except he has long, flowing locks of hair, no need for glasses, and always wears a long, brown coat with a hood, as if he were a wandering vagabond, and we'd sit under a large tree, which represents my capacity for love.  "I'm going to die loveless and alone," I'd say with certainty and then sigh. 

My Higher Self would calmly reply, "You will die alone - in the end, everyone does.  It's not something you can really share with another person.  As for the loveless part, well, that's a choice isn't it?"

"What do you mean?"

"You act as if 'love' is something you have been constantly denied, but when have you ever offered it to anyone?  How can you know that you don't have something, when you don't even know what it looks like?  That's like having no concept of books, while living in a library and constantly complaining that nobody ever gives you books.  Do you see how stupid that is?"

"I never thought of it that way."

"Yeah you have, you just haven't shut up your brain enough to think of it until now."

"So, when will I ever figure out how to get a girlfriend?" 

My Higher Self rolled his eyes.  "Craig, there's nothing to 'figure out'.  Remember my book analogy a minute ago?  Replace 'books' with 'girls' and just pick one already."

***

We went for a follow-up visit to the doctor’s office about two weeks after the previous one.  The doctor measured my blood pressure again.  “Much, much better,” he said, with no small amount of surprise.  “Just where it ought to be.  I take it the medication is helping?”

“Yeah… sure,” I lied, grinning.

VII. Prom

Despite my newly enlightened perspective, my self-esteem was still in the red, and I was still worried about prom, which was a mere couple of weeks away.  My list of prospective dates wouldn't fill up the slip of paper in a fortune cookie, and showed no sign of getting better.  I began to mentally prepare myself for the eventuality that I would going it alone, like a man facing the gallows, when I received an unexpected phone call from my cousin Melinda.

“Hey, did you still need a date for the prom?” she asked

“Uh, yeah, thank you for the offer, but, like, taking one’s cousin to prom seems more pathetic than going alone,” I replied.

“I wasn’t offering to go with you, dummy.  You remember my friend Kristy?  The one that came with me to Florida?” 

“Yeah, sure.”

“She’s offering to go as your date.”

I was immediately suspicious.  "Are you guys messing with me?”

“No,” Melinda responded, with what sounded like genuine outrage.  “I swear, she really wants to go with you.”

“Is she being paid to go with me or something?”  I put my hand over the receiver and yelled: “Mom, are you paying Melinda’s friend, Kristy, to go to prom with me?”

“Who?"  Mom asked from the kitchen, completely oblivious to the conversation or my question.  "Why would I pay Melinda to go with you to Prom?"

“Nobody is paying anybody,” Melinda answered impatiently.  “Do you want Kristy or not?”

"Do I... um... want her?" I asked uncomfortably.

"Do you want Kristy to go with you," Melinda clarified, before adding, "You're such a pervert."

“Um… yeah, sure, but… I'm still confused.  Do... do you know what her angle is?  What’s her end game?  Is she trying to get back at somebody by going to prom with me?”

“Oh my god,” Melinda said in exasperation.  “I’ll just tell her you said yes.”  She hung up.  It was just that sudden – in the span of one day I was dateless, and now I had a date.  I was terrified.

***

Now that I was no longer worried about having a date for Prom, I was free to worry what was motivating this girl to go with me in the first place.  I imagined the conversation going like this:

INT. MELINDA'S BEDROOM - NIGHT

(MELINDA and KRISTY are sitting around, listening to music, or doing whatever it is girls their age do.)

Melinda:  "So you remember my cousin, Craig?  When we went to Florida?"

Kristy:  "The cute one? 

Melinda: "No, not Jon, my other cousin, Craig."

Kristy:  "Oh.  Yeah.  That one.  What about him?"

Melinda:  "He's looking for someone to take to prom and, like, you know how you owe me a favor...?"

Kristy:  "Whoa.  No.  You are NOT asking me what I think you are."

Melinda:  "Come on, it's only one night!  It could be fun!"
 
Kristy:  "What if he tries to... you know... make out with me or something?"

Melinda:  "He's way too much of a pussy.  I mean, come on, really?"

Kristy:  "Ugh... I guess it won't be too awful... but we are even after this!"

Melinda:  "Deal!"

END SCENE 


When Kristy was in Florida, I barely spoke to her, as I was so preoccupied with Erin.  She was certainly very cute, as far as I could recall, and she was very sweet.  At least I wasn’t taking a troll with me to prom… unless she had put on a few pounds since Florida and caught a vicious strain of Lupus. 
 

“Holy crap!  What if she has Lupus?” I exclaimed at the dinner table one night.

"What's Lupus?" my brother asked.

"I don't know, but what if she has it?"

“Oh, she doesn’t have Lupus,” my mom assured me.

“What if she’s fat now?”

“So what?” my dad interjected.  “Big girls need loving too.”

“Ugh, not from me they don’t.”

“Beggars can’t be choosers, Craig,” dad pointed out, not for the last time in my life.  In this instance, though, I suppose he was correct.  I just couldn’t wrap my head around why this girl wanted to go on a date with me. 

“So, have you been made reservations at any restaurants in Bowling Green?” asked mom.

“Eh?  No… I don’t even know where we should go.”

“How about Mariah’s?”

“Seems too rich for my blood,” I said, having mistakenly believed that the locally owned Bowling Green restaurant was the kind of four-star eatery that had a strict dress code, when in reality, it was probably just one level above a Chili’s.  This erroneous statement is made all the more ironic by the fact that I would end up working at Mariah’s for five years during college (spoilers!).

“Your father will give you money to go out with,” mom stated, drawing a look of surprise and horror from my father.

“Huh?  Uh… well, we’ll see…”

“Danny, it’s your oldest son’s Senior Prom.” 

“I didn’t say ‘no’, I said ‘we’ll see’.”

“He will give you money,” mom reaffirmed. 

“Is that your Coke-of-the-day?” Dad asked, pointing to the can of Coke next to my dinner plate.  My dad became especially frugal about our “Coke rations” when the subject of money came up.

“Uh… I had one at school…” I said, holding the can in front of me with two fingers, as if analyzing an object that hadn’t realized was there before. 

“Then is that your second Coke today, sir?”

My dad was a big fan of the Socratic method of disciplining, which involved asking questions he knew the answer to, but he wanted me to admit to my wrongdoing before he pounced.  I looked around the table for assistance, but everyone went back to eating their food, having decided, in the choice of battles with my father to pick, this was better left untouched.  I was not so wise.  “I used my own money for that Coke!  Gawd!”

“Talk to someone ya know!” He replied automatically.  “It ain’t about the money.  It’s about this.” He patted his own somewhat bulbous stomach.  “Don’t ya think you’ve had enough, Piccolo?”  Ever since turning down his plead for me to play high school football, dad had become especially harsh about my weight, reminding at every opportunity what a fat slug I had become. 

“Ugh, I don’t need this.  I’m going to my room,” I said, leaving the table in outrage, and stomping up to my room… only to return for my dinner plate, Coke, and a Little Debbie Oatmeal Crème Pie for dessert.

***

I continued to totally neglect making plans for Prom, partly because I’m lazy, but mostly because I was still convinced it would never happen.  I have a bad habit of expecting a girl I'm interested in to cancel her plans with me last minute, as if she suddenly realized, "Whoa, wait, this guy was serious about meeting up?  Shit, I better cancel and stop talking to him immediately."  I also didn't think it would be too difficult to find a restaraunt to eat at in the entire town of Bowling Green.

Kristy showed up early the day of prom, with my aunt Cyndi and my cousin Melinda.  I greeted her as cordially as I could manage, despite how incredibly nervous I was about the whole ordeal.  She seemed just as nervous, if not more so... after all, this was likely her first prom too.  We both began our respective preparations.  I had rented a rather swanky tux that used a large button instead of a tie.  If I had been wearing a Stetson and boots, I would have looked like I play a Texan oil tycoon at murder mystery parties.  I actually felt quite stylish though, which was a welcome change of pace from my usual attire of garish tropical shirts that would make Jimmy Buffet cringe.  Kristy had bought a lovely violet dress that accentuated her figure really well.  In fact, until she had that dress on, I hadn’t really noticed what a lovely figure she had, or just how pretty she was.  For a moment, I managed to appreciate how lucky I was to have this beautiful girl agree to accompany to a dance, whether it was out of pity or not.

We awkwardly posed for photos in front of my house.  At one point my aunt Cyndi took the cigarette out of mouth and yelled, “Put your arm around her for godsakes, Craig!  She’s supposed to be your damn date!”  I immediately followed her order, reluctantly holding her waist.  I have always felt uncomfortable taking the initiative to make even benign physical contact with a girl, much less intimate contact.  Even gently placing my hand on a girl’s shoulder to express innocent affection makes me feel so… presumptuous.  Plus, at the time, a woman’s body was still such an exotic territory for my senses that even something as small as holding a girl’s waist to pose for photos sent shock waves through my system, spiking my body temperature through the roof, making my heart thud so hard it felt like someone playing racket ball against my rib cage, and causing such instant perspiration, one would think I had just stepped out of the shower and put my clothes on without bothering to towel off first. 

I wondered how, if I were so inclined, I would be able to "make a move".  Perhaps I could bring my aunt Cyndi along to coach me.  She could be in the backseat and bark out smokey commands like, "Stop stalling and kiss her, ya idiot!" or "Hey Craig, ya going to round first base and feel her boob, or just be a queer about it?"  I kind of shuddered at that last thought.

“Jeez, this feels like an arranged marriage or something,” I murmured in jest, wiping away a layer of sweat from my forehead, hoping to dissipate the uncomfortable tension I felt and was certain she must have felt as well.  She humored me with a chuckle, which would be an ongoing theme of the night, but didn’t pull away or stiffen when I delicately placed my hands on her hips (after thoroughly wiping my palms dry on my pants). 

We posed for more photos, before departing for Bowling Green in my trusty Pontiac Sunfire, the nationally recognized chariot of love.  During the car ride, I put on some music, and we talked about our favorite bands… or, rather, I talked about MY favorite bands, and Kristy politely listened, while occasionally offering her opinions that got drowned out by my more brilliant opinions. 

When we arrived in Bowling Green, I confessed that I hadn’t made reservations and had no clue where we’d get dinner.  “Um, won’t it be too busy to just walk into a place tonight?” Kristy asked. 

I shrugged.  “I dunno.  I’ve never done this before.”

“Prom?” she asked.

“No – a date.  Although, now that you mention it, I've never dined by myself in a restaurant either... except for that Star Trek restaurant in Vegas.  Too bad that Star Trek restaurant isn't around here, that would be pretty cool to go to.” 

"Yeah..." She said, before pointing to a Chinese restaurant that used to be a Kingfish and said, “That place looks interesting.  How about there?”

I perked up. “Really?  Um, yeah, that sounds great!”  I began to feel a lot better about how this “pity date” was going.  As much as I loved Chinese food, I figured a girl would view going to a Chinese restaurant for prom kind of tacky, and it kind of is, but it appeared that Kristy and I were on the same page of the “Who Gives a Fuck” bible.  This particular restaurant was slightly higher end than most Chinese restaurants in Bowling Green, at least as far as presentation goes, but we were still the best dressed people in the entire joint, which made me slightly self-conscious.

Dinner went by in surprisingly comfortable silence.  I chose to eat my food with chopsticks to show off my dexterity, only to have a piece of General Tzo chicken fall snugly into my lap.  I was silently grateful I had strategically chosen to wear dark clothing in preparation for just such an occurrence.  Nevertheless, I immediately switched back to a fork.

Conversation happened in fits and spurts, but somehow we managed to get to the subject of dealing with bullies.  I told her stories of being tormented at the public pool by bullies who would call me “Casper the Friendly Ghost”, because of my luminescent pale complexion.

“That’s nothing,” she replied.  “At least you don’t have an embarrassing last name.”

 “Huh, now that I think of it, I don’t even know your last name.”

“
I’ll tell you only if you promise not to make fun of me.”

I laughed.  “Kristy, come on, why would I make fun of you?”

She took a deep breath.  “It’s Weiner.”

Now, it goes without saying, for the purposes of this book, I change the names of a few people to protect their identity and not inadvertently embarrass them.  So, of course, I completely changed Kristy’s name top-to-bottom, especially since my first and only attempt to contact her on Facebook about this chapter was met with what I can only imagine to be shocked and terrified silence.  For all I know, she’s meeting with her lawyer about possible legal options as I type this.  So even though her real first name isn't "Kristy", and her real last name isn’t “Weiner” (or is it?), rest assured, it is something she was justifiably embarrassed about. 

I shrugged it off.  “There are lots of people with the last name Wiener.  At least your last name isn’t ‘Penis’ or ‘Vagina’.”

“Who would have ‘Penis’ as a last name?”

“Hey, it’s a big world, you never know,” I said, gathering the last bits of rice I probably should have just let go onto a fork.  "I once met a guy with the last name of 'Oriface', but he pronounced it 'Ori-fa-say'." I did a fancy flourish of my hands, which made both of us laugh.   

***

We drove back to Russellville, letting the music drown out the lack of conversation in the car.  We arrived at prom, which was being held in the illustrious Russellville High School gym.  As if cancelling our Senior Trip to Six Flags wasn't enough, our school refused to spend any money on our Prom... probably because I rallied most of my class into drawing penises on our CATS test answer sheet in response to our Senior trip being canceled.  The resulting failing scores made our school go into crisis after our class left, which made me quite satisfied.  I was quite the busy activist that year.

The fascist prom committee had commissioned my mom for help in decorating the event.  My mom agreed with me that the What Dreams May Come theme was retarded, so she went rogue, and went with an odd “medieval times” prom theme instead.  It was as if she had harbored this "medieval times" theme in her soul for years, much like I still harbored my "Baby Got Back" theme, and now was her time to see her Prom dream come to fruition.  She designed a fake drawbridge for the entrance of the gym, and lined the interior with cardboard castle walls.  Knowing my mom’s attention to detail, I’m sure she wanted to spread straws of hay on the floor, and hire actors to dress as knights to hold a fake jousting competition, but was probably finally overruled by the school’s wishes, not to mention budget.  The result, though, was not so much What Dreams May Come as Monty Python and the Holy Grail.  All that was missing was a large, wooden bunny centerpiece.

At the entrance, they had someone on hand to announce couples as they entered, which presented a bit of a dilemma.  The fact that I was walking into prom with a date, and an attractive date at that, was more than enough attention than I was realized I was comfortable with.  Everyone would be like, "Craig found a date???  How much do you think she costs?"  The last thing I needed was for someone to announce my date’s last name was ‘Weiner’.  I would never hear the end of it; even my closest friends would jump all over that.  I could hear it now:  “Hey Craig, it’s good at least one of you has a Weiner!”  People would hum the Oscar Meyer theme within earshot as I attempted to slow dance with her.   

I wasn't just nervous for me; I didn’t want Kristy to be humiliated either, especially after revealing to me how she was made fun of all her life for her name.  So when the two of us approached the announcer and he asked our names, I called an audible and said:  “Craig Williams and…and…” looking apologetically at my date.  “… and Kristy Smith?” 

After we were announced as such, we walked in to nobody giving two-shits about me or my date.  I don't know why I thought anyone would care.  I went through all of high school without anyone caring about my love life, why should they start now?  Especially when they were more concerned with getting laid that night.  

I leaned in close to Kristy’s ear.  “I’m sorry, I’m a big jerk, I just didn’t want for you to be embarrassed!”

“It’s okay,” she soothed.  “I’m kind of glad you did that.”

“Yeah, but I still feel jerky.  You shouldn’t be ashamed of your name and neither should I.  I just feel really... superficial right now.”

We took a seat at a table with friends, and I introduced her.  “Oh, is this your cousin?” my friend Josh asked discreetly, out of Kristy's earshot.  It would not be the last time that question was asked by a classmate.

“Ah, heh, no, it’s my cousin’s friend.”

“She’s hot.  You think you guys will… you know… eh?  Eh?” He elbowed my ribs suggestively.  When I didn't respond fast enough, he elaborated by whispering:  "Fucking."  Hearing a guy whisper the word "fuck" in your ear, for any reason, is never comfortable, and I began wiping my ear off with my sleeve, as if he licked it to further illustrate his point.

“Ha, no, I don’t think so…” I said, although the reality of possible sex hadn’t really occurred to me till then.  Sure, being a warm blooded American male, naturally I wondered if Kristy was sexually interested in me, but I dismissed such thoughts as pure fantasy not worth wasting any time on.  I regarded Kristy, who was watching people dance, and, for the first time, entertained the possibility of sex with her.  At that point in life, I was all but clueless on the signs to look out for when a girl is sexually attracted to you:  consistent physical contact; nervous quirks, like playing with their hair or rubbing their arms; eye contact whenever you talked.  Kristy had exhibited none of those signs, which may explain why I hadn't seriously considered sex until someone brought it up.  In order for me to make a move, even to this day, I needed everything short of a air traffic controller with those glowing cones, signalling to me that I was clear to enter the girl's vagina. 

As if on cue, a bucket of condoms appeared next to my head.  The guy holding the bucket of condoms was a friend of mine, an underclassman named Ronson, who was dressed in a tuxedo t-shirt.  He shook the bucket and asked everyone at the table if they would need any condoms tonight, making it rain condoms onto our table before we could respond.  We all had a laugh at his escapades, before he got chased out of gym by one of the teachers.  I picked up a condom and jokingly said to Kristy.  “So... will we be needing this?”  I tried chuckling to telegraph that I was, of course, just kidding.

Kristy barely cracked a smile and shook her head.  “I don’t think so.”  Her averted eye gaze telegraphed that she was not just kidding.

I croaked a pained laugh, like Philip Seymour Hoffman in The Big Lebowski.  
I casually tossing the condom back on the table with the resignation of someone who had lost their lifesavings at Blackjack, and tipped the dealer with their last chip.  Well.  I guess I could put a pin in the whole “will I lose my virginity tonight” question.

Consequently, once the possibility of sex was eliminated, I began to relax and enjoy myself a bit more.  I couldn’t help but feel an overwhelmingly contagious positive energy in the room.  We, as a class, had survived high school together and were about to be scattered across the Earth to our respective destinies – some of those destinies would involve greatness, while other destinies would simply be rounding the drain into oblivion.  I'm still not quite sure what category I fit into.  For this moment, though, we could see each other for the last time before real life would have its way with us (or, for some, the other way around).  In all my time in Russellville, I could scarcely remember any other time where I felt such unity with these people.  Even one of my friends, who had come to prom dressed in regular clothes dateless, and stoned out of his mind, seemed to be having a good time. 

Then I had a fantastic idea.  I approached the DJ the school hired for the event and made a request.  After a few minutes, he played my request, and Sir Mix-a-Lot defiantly proclaimed across the gymnasium:  "I LIKE BIG BUTTS, I CANNOT LIE!"  The expression of the school chaperones when that song came on was priceless and the thrill of victory that I got even a little bit of my “Baby Got Back” prom was exquisite.  Everyone began dancing in rapturous delight, and I was inundated with high fives.  When a natural high such as this was in the air, even I am not resistant to its effects and so, in a very rare moment of disinhibition… I danced.  I danced my ass off.  I probably looked like a fool, but I didn’t give a shit.  I was in the zone.   

Then Boyz II Men came on, and it was slow dance music time.  It was at this point I finally managed the nerve to ask my own date to dance and she accepted.  As we slow danced, and I again dealt with my body going frantic with being in such close proximity to a beautiful female, I observed my high school crushes dancing with their respective partners. 

Lauren, still never having met anyone in town who was worthy, was dancing with the friend she had brought instead.  I thought about asking her for a dance, but, considering how I was reacting physiologically from being in such close contact with Kristy, there was no way in hell I could be that close to Lauren without my nose gushing blood.  Nope, after all this time sharing classes, and even an art trip together, she was still on that pedestal, as unreachable as ever, and so beautiful I feared the act of touching her would make me burst into flames, like some sort of creature of the night.

On the other side of the dance floor was Erin, dancing with her date, who would be her future husband and father to her children.  They were kissing as they danced.  There was a time when such a sight would have made me tear the shirt off my body, fall on my knees, and scream “NOOOO!”  However, I was relieved to feel… well, nothing.  It's rather difficult to feel jealous when in the arms of an attractive girl.  I felt happy for Erin, though slightly bittersweet that it wasn’t me in her embrace for that moment.  I raised my eyebrows - those two were still kissing.  Someone would have to step in an separate them so they could breath.  I remember thinking, Wow, she sure is going to have sex with that guy tonight! 

Before I could follow that awkward train of thought I regarded my own date, Kristy.  From the moment our date started, I had a feeling it wasn’t going to be the start of a new and amazing relationship.  It was an arrangement of convenience, and I was alright with that.  I wondered, though, if maybe I should at least try to kiss her… but, no, it just didn’t feel right.  The way we were dancing, in our stilted, awkward fashion, just didn’t lend itself to any kind of romantic segway into kissing.  You’ve never seen two people try so hard to avoid eye contact. 

When it was all said and done, we went back to my house, where I offered her my bed to sleep on, while I took the couch.  Before you misconstrue my offer as any way “gentlemanly”, I should add that my aunt was already sleeping away on my bed and there was no way was ending my prom night with that scenario.  She went to bed, and the next morning, her and my aunt left so early, I didn’t even have time to thank her for the date.  I would see her maybe once or twice after Prom, but our interactions were not changed by the experience, for the better or the worst.  As the years went by, I saw less of her, until she was eventually married off.  I am grateful that she went with me, whether it was out of pity or not, and hope that it wasn’t among the worst, most uncomfortable experiences of her life.