Posted in Blog on August 13, 2012|
3 Comments »
Writing historicals is one of my passions. A chance to vent about an historical event in my life, my first date, is a refreshing opportunity, a healing.
There are all kinds of scriptures in my Christian Faith about the evils of revenge. Many will tell you it is not only wrong, it is not sweet. “They” might be right most of the time but here’s the 1% which broke the rule. Prepare, dear reader, for a sweet and yes, a sour story.
Picture a shy sixteen year old told by her parents that yes, she may date but not until her junior prom. Thankfully I already had the attention of one of the elite. Don’t you remember those heart and sweat gland plabataors? Excitement wasn’t the word. Excitement doesn’t cover the on-top-of-the-world nervous system waltz that held me together as I got the word out on the high school grapevine that yes, this adorable senior could ask me to the prom. Not his prom, mine. Back in the day when there were two, not a Junior/Senior. The message was sent and received. I understood that, and that yes, I would be going on my first date to my junior prom with him, that him. Ah, the dress, the shoes, the etc.
That night was, well…painful. He never showed, stood me up.
He had planted the seeds of revenge. As it turned out he had gone to both proms with yes, a pretty cheerleader, not overly smart, but she had him. He graduated and moved off to college. During a rehabilitating summer the grapevine reported that the graduate elites would reunite at the October Sadie Hawkins Dance.
Yes, that’s right. The Sadie Hawkins Dance was the only time (back in the day) when a female was allowed to issue an invitation to a male. It was the only school dance graduates could attend if they were invited by undergrads. It took some political maneuvering to convince everyone that I had indeed forgiven him. He called and begged for an invitation, really begged. I granted it.
That night was sweet as I went no where. It was sweet sitting at home listening to the phone ring several times. “Honey, don’t you want to talk to him?” asked my clueless mother. My smile didn’t reach my evil eyes as I said, “No, thanks.” Inside, “Hell, no.”
Sweet.
Good Grief.
Read Full Post »
