Big Kids' Prom

So this afternoon my father casually wanders into my office and drops this bomb on me: He has invited C and I to go with him to a black-tie event. First of all, so cool that we are invited. I am pumped. So nice. It’ll be like a big kids’ prom. Second of all, WTF!? NEXT WEEK!? WHAT AM I GOING TO WEAR!? Also, I’m basically as white as you can be without being dead, so I was hoping to try out a spray tan but don’t want to try it out when I have to be out in public in front of people who matter! Now I either have to risk being orange at the event, or I have to suck it up and go with ghostly-white complexion. Damn you, Irish heritage. When I bring up my many dilemmas my dad says, “Calm down. It’ll be fun.” Such a generic, short answer yet so amazingly unhelpful.

After talking for a few more minutes, my dad suggests that I wear black dress pants. A fabulous idea. All of the men will be in tuxedos. The women will be in floor-length dresses. I will be there in black dress pants. Like an a-hole. He couldn’t understand why I had my underwear in a twist (I hate the word panties. I will explain why in another post) but he’s a guy so I didn’t really expect him to. How could he understand that I needed more than a week to find a suitable dress and shoes? God save us all.

The best part came when I asked my dad how long he had known about this event invitation. Oh, roughly two to three months. Really? How interesting.

“Why didn’t you tell me sooner?” I ask, trying not to yell and cause a scene in the middle of the work day.
“Oh, stop. A week is plenty of time to get ready,” he says half laughing, half rolling his eyes as he leaves me in my office.

Later, I’m standing at the scanner pretending I know how to work it when my dad comes up to me again. He wants to confirm that both C and I will be there. He also wants to tell me who will be sitting at our table. Basically, a lot of people I want to impress. I want to kick him in the shin, but we are in the middle of the office. Also he’s a guy so he doesn’t get it, and it’s not really his fault. I just smile and nod. I take out my frustrations on the scanner by pressing the buttons unnecessarily hard and cursing when it takes too long.

The million dollar question: has C made an appointment to get fitted for a tux? Has he even though about getting a tux? You bet your ass he has not. It must be so nice to be a guy. Seriously.


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