My high school experience was a somewhat less exciting version of that movie Mean Girls, only I didn’t have flowing red locks and Lindsay Lohan’s stylist. 

I did, however, grow about two feet taller than any of the boys. I wore black eyeliner and Converse, and usually had some sort of weird thing going on with my hair which was paired with a band t-shirt that people beyond my friend group had never heard of. I had a wonderful group of friends that I fit in just fine with. We spent our weekends trolling for live music at any all ages venue that would have us. A few of us had a band that were one of the favourites of that scene, the rest – including me – formed their fan base.

When prom came around, none of us were particularly excited about it. Maybe the girls were, secretly. The boys did what they were told, got measured for tuxes their dates picked out, and tried to find silly ways of making them their own. A lot of them had arranged their prom dates years in advance. Having just slipped into this group of friends, I had no such arrangement. 

I bought my dress – a hot pink gown with black trimmings. It was plain, but colourful enough. I picked out a black star necklace and ordered a pair of pink shoes off the internet. 

The week before prom I still didn’t have a date. I decided I wouldn’t go, knowing I would probably regret that decision, but I couldn’t be the only girl there without a date. Then again – being the only girl not there was probably equally embarrassing, but hey, I could have come down with a horrible virus the night before, right?

I had resigned myself to not going, when a distant friend named Aaron shyly walked up to me one day at school in an empty hallway, and asked me. 

On the day of prom, my mom and I did my hair and makeup, while the rest of the girls in my class spent hundreds of their parents’ money getting professionals to do it for them. I put my shoes on, and immediately they hurt my feet. I packed my favourite pair of pink high-tops with a menacing Misfits skull on the side for later. 

We ended up missing the majority of the pictures, because Aaron’s friend Travis either couldn’t figure out how to put on his tux, or couldn’t be bothered to do so on time. I drove the three of us in my Mom’s little Toyota Echo – with its standard transmission – in my heels, plus my friend Brianna who was going with Travis, up to the gardens where the class met to have photos taken with family and friends. I parked that baby right beside the lifted trucks, limos and Corvettes the other kids were allowed to drive for that night only. 

My mom bought my corsage for me, and when I handed Aaron his, he refused to put it on. Once we finally got to the gardens, Aaron realized he was the only guy there without a corsage, so he reluctantly wore it.

When we finally got to prom, I relaxed a bit, threw on my high tops and danced with my friends. My favourite part of prom happened next. We were dancing when Gwen Stefani’s Hollaback Girl (the most annoying song ever recorded, I will add) came on. My group of about eight friends suddenly found ourselves being pushed off the dance floor to make way for a group of typical mean girls, as they launched into a choreographed disaster of a dance. 

It was then that I realized me and my wonderfully weird, unique and amazing friends had absolutely no business at their prom. 

All of the stress that I had felt leading up to that stupid event that wasn’t even for me crumbled away. This wasn’t the best night of my life – it wasn’t the last hurrah that defined the next 50 years of my life. But for some of the girls there, it was. They had obviously spent weeks crafting that dance. This was their moment to, um, shine, I guess. 

My moment to shine was going to be when I accepted my diploma at college three years later. Or when I got my first journalism job, or this job at the Fitz. It’s going to be the day I get married, or the day I have my first child, or the day that first kid graduates.

So this weekend, Jasper grads, just relax. It’s supposed to be fun – not choreographed.

DISCLAIMER: The Last Word is an opinion column, it is meant to provoke thought and debate. As such, any opinions written here are the writer’s own and do not reflect the viewpoint of any other Fitzhugh staff member or the directors of the Jasper Media Group Inc.