Monday, January 12, 2009
I've covered a myriad of events during my 10 or so months at this little paper: horse races, crop circles, General Romeo Dallaire's visit(can you say, awesome?), rummage sales, book launches, and eighteen billion Christmas concerts. And last week, for the first time since approximately 2001, I was given the shining opportunity (read: non-negotiable order) to attend, of all things, a high school dance.
Walking up to the front doors guarded by rent-a-cops, I had to suppress a reflex to check my camera bag for any suspect "water" bottles that might be confiscated, despite the fact that I don't think I was ever actually the one smuggling vodka into the dances (I mean, I don't know and would not associate with anyone who did that, mom).
But man, did we love our high school dances. There is nothing quite like putting on the maximum of makeup and the minimum of clothing you can smuggle yourself out of the house in to dive headfirst into all the ridiculous romance and drama and general hormonal insanity and bad behaviour that was somewhat held in check during the day (or at least broken up somewhat by classes).
Getting ready for the dance at age 23 was a little different, "Ugh, you mean I can't change into my sweatpants until at least 9:30? Why is my life so stupid??!!!" (There may still be some of that hormonal insanity lingering in my system yet, come to think of it.) I always kind of dread high school assignments. It seems I'm still young enough to be judged by/mistaken for a teenage mutant high school girl. Which is funny considering that I was often mistaken for an adult during my high school days. And as much as I'd like to think I'm impervious to it, a collective death stare from a group of teen girls is still a powerful thing. Plus it always brings back the lingering doubt that maybe, just maybe, my friends and I weren't as cool and non-annoying as I like to think we were.
Anyway, I was not looking forward to skulking around and blinding underage, underdressed girls and the guys desperate to sleep with them. I couldn't help but cringe at the thought of witnessing any of the behaviour I can still (unfortunately) so vividly recall.
So it was a pleasant surprise upon arriving to be directed by a bored looking law officer to the outdoor courtyard where the dear things were bundled up in winter gear too heavy to allow for any kid of effective groping while they bopped around the yard. None of them were even visibly intoxicated!
It turns out the dance was a fundraiser for a memorial garden, so maybe that had something to do with the squeaky clean behaviour, I don't know. But it made for a surprisingly pain-free assignment. Maybe those gosh darn whippersnappers aren't so bad after all. I mean, we were awesome, so it's possible, right?
Now I can go back to dreading council meetings.