Morning Open Thread is a daily, copyrighted post from a host of editors and guest writers. We support our community, invite and share ideas, and encourage thoughtful, respectful dialogue in an open forum.
I’ve come to think of this post as one where you come for the music and stay for the conversation—so feel free to drop a note. The diarist gets to sleep in if she so desires and can show up long after the post is published. So you know, it's a feature, not a bug.
Join us, please.
Good morning everyone and happy Friday; we’ve made it through yet another week.
For whatever reason, last night my love had me describe what I wore to my senior prom, what my date wore, and how proms actually work in the deep south. I suspect she simply delights in having me remember the most awkward parts of my life. Or perhaps she just needed a good laugh. Still, this has been a running joke for years between us—she didn’t attend a prom and is fascinated by their youthful pageantry and the utter goofiness of kids playing dress up.
Anyway, last night she interrogated me on the details of my sartorial choices and the progress of the night. She knows who I went with, of course, but hadn’t realized that the girl had asked me to prom (I was much too intimidated to have done such a thing) and that senior prom down here is a fairly intricate affair involving dinner and dancing and after-parties and sunrise breakfast and (please don’t tell anyone) even drinking. It’s a last hoorah, an all-night struggle of every tender insecurity, unjustified adolescent expectation, and hormone-driven urge foisted upon girls and boys at that ripe, ignorant age.
My outfit was traditional in a few ways—dictated by history (which makes it all the worse) and spelled out in detail from the white patent leather shoes to the white top hat. The only hint of individualism in that white-on-white tux ensemble (including white cane) was the hint of baby blue on the tips of my ruffled shirt. I looked ridiculous. Like a boy pretending to be a man. Like a laborer pretending to be gentry. But I didn’t care; I felt like a million bucks. My date was gorgeous and wore a simple, flowing gown of a single purplish color—an outfit of plunging neckline, open back, and strategic clinging that only someone with confidence well beyond mine could pull off at that age. My sisters had banded together to remind me of my manners, had picked out appropriate flowers for me to present, and even thrust a wad of bills into my hands as I awkwardly left for the evening.
Though I have no desire to relive that night, it is a tender memory I cherish and one that I can rely on to entertain my love and bring forth a laugh that reminds me we were all once young and pretentious—that we all have to learn that growing up involves more than the choices we make on what to wear and whom to dance with. That each night we have to remember our manners, give attention to our choice of flowers, and leave caution at the door.
Cheers everyone. Have a lovely day and an even better weekend.
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Grab your coffee or tea and join us, please.
What's on your mind this morning?