When I was in the sixth grade, I went to my first dance. My middle school had a '50s Day when students (read: mainly girls) dressed up in clothes from that era, and at the end of the day, we had a "sock hop" in the gym. The best part of the day was sixth period. My friends and I had P.E., but since the gym was being readied for the dance, we didn't have to dress out or do anything that would cause us to break out in a sweat. We were able to sit around and talk for an hour.
Of course, I didn't have a date for this dance, and had I known it would be one of many dances I would go to without a date, I probably would have just avoided it, gone home, and immersed myself in black for the next six years.
Yet somewhere in my mind — warped by the escapades of Bo and Hope on Days of Our Lives (and later, Patch and Kayla), I actually thought that a guy would be there who would think I was pretty and have the guts to ask me to dance.
Madonna's "Crazy for You" would start to play, and our eyes would meet from across the gym. He'd stroll over to me in his Converse high-tops — with his light brown feathered hair and Izod shirt with the collar turned up.
Oh yes, people, I was that pathetic.
Of course, the dance turned out like your stereotypical early adolescence mixer. Hardly anyone showed up. The girls outnumbered the guys 10 to 1, and the guys who did show up came with their girlfriends. Basically, I stood around with my friends, goofed off, drank soda, and ate popcorn — which we actually did during sixth period.
What I had almost forgotten about was how I got in trouble with my mom because I lied and said my friend's mother was picking us up when really my friend's older brother brought us home. My mother didn't want me riding with a barely experienced teenage driver (especially a boy), and telling her the mother was my method of getting home was key to gaining permission to go to the dance.
Yet, as boring as this dance was, the experience didn't stop me from going to a bunch of others — even if I didn't have a date.