After digging through box after box of old photos, I finally found both of my high school prom pictures. So can everyone stop harassing me now? The funny thing about these pictures is that I’m not prepared to say that I look like the Bride of Frankenstein. I actually think I look fairly hot, in a trampy, Little House on the Prairie kind of way. I don’t know. You be the judge.

Note: I have blacked out my date’s eyes, you know, to avoid getting sued and all that. He’s an oral surgeon now and could probably buy me ten times over. Please God, don’t let him find my blog.

First up, the junior prom (click to enlarge)

junior_prom This is the gown that my Dad didn’t want me leaving the house in. Why? Because under that tiny tulle shawl covered an embarrassing amount of cleavage. Without the shawl, the gown looked and felt like lingerie from Fredericks of Hollywood and now, as a mature woman, I can understand why my Dad was having a coronary. Sorry, Dad.

Memorable moment: When some jerk slam-danced onto my toe and made it bleed. I got blood on my gown and when I told my date what happened, he went over to they guy’s table and had a few words. A few loud words. There may have been a punch involved. Not sure. Then he made him come over and apologize to me. The poor guy didn’t mean it, but he never spoke to me again as long as I was still hooked up with my prom date. Ahhh, fear. The Great Motivator.

Next up, the senior prom. The pendulum clearly swung in the other direction a year later because I zipped myself senior_prom up so good, only my hands and face were exposed, and just barely. This gown says “Don’t look at me. Don’t touch me. And where’d I put my butter churner?” I don’t recall lace being so “in” that year. I might have just been trying to undo my hooker look from the year before.

Memorable moment: I don’t actually remember anything from this prom, since my brain cells were being fried up in the heat of this gown. Despite its being lacy, there were layers and layers of it, all conspiring to envelope me in a sauna of my own doing. The day was hot. The day was humid. I couldn’t breathe and I’m pretty sure I ripped this thing off and stuffed it in the garbage when the night was over.

So what’s the consensus, people? Bride of Frankenstein or hot, hot hottie? Go ahead. I can take it.

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