Prom for twenty-six-year-olds

When was the last time you did this?



And by "this" I mean walked to the back of a department store until you saw the sign "Prom" in large sparkly letters and began rifling through yellow ballgowns and slutsville dresses looking for a formal gown to wear. For me, it's now been eight years. Eight long years since I had to worry about corsages and curfews.

But apparently the military wants you to relive prom. They think it's a valuable tradition to have a lot of formals and get dressed up and do all sorts of tasks that make people feel nervous, like greet important colonels, and make certain responses when people make toasts, and not accidentally clap after the national anthem is played because you're only used to hearing it at sporting events.

I found myself the victim of one such formal last weekend when Andrew forced me to go to a ball honoring his unit's return from Iraq. While I'm obviously very proud of my husband, going shopping for something to wear to this ball was low on the list of things I wanted to do. Not to mention that my super, and I mean super, smart husband somehow didn't think it was important to tell me this event existed until about six days before its arrival.

While I feel a bit ridiculous posting these pictures, the only reason I originally took them was to get a second opinion from Andrew. You see, he couldn't actually go with me to the stores because he has some type of illness associated with shopping. When Andrew enters any store that is not Home Depot, and by that I mean clothing, grocery or fun-related, his spine hunches over and he starts squinting his eyes a lot and becomes altogether quite caustic.

It's really not worth the pain...for either of us. So I was left the huge task of dress shopping alone. What resulted was this train wreck of fashion.

This one was sort of ugly and blurry:



This one was like wearing a giant wreath around your neck:



This one was a bit too "look at me -- I like the color blue!":



But thankfully, this one was just the right amount of "I blend into the background so hopefully no one will notice me or try to make awkward conversation":



And in the end, I survived the night. And by survived I mean I ate multiple pieces of cake and made several random comments about how when I feel awkward, I eat my feelings.

I also feel it necessary to add that Andrew is in no way going bald. The lighting got blown out in this photo. Andrew may have a disease associated with public places involving commercial exchange, but bald he is not.



Now I have to go print this picture and put it in my high school yearbook. Right next to the superlatives.

Andrew was voted "Most Likely to Find a Cure for Cancer." And I was voted "Most Accident Prone."

Only one of us currently operates heavy machinery and uses guns. The other is good at eating cake.

I think we're a good match.