My prom gown was baby blue.
It was my very first strapless dress, and my mother insisted that I wear a little shawl with it, one that I ditched as soon as we got to the hotel ballroom.
I felt terribly grown up — and thrilled to have silver ankle-strap shoes with significant heels to complete the transformation from my usual pleated skirts and blouses with Peter Pan collars.
Somewhere, there is a photo of me, standing with my uncomfortable date on that long, long-ago evening. As I recall, my feet were killing me, he was actually interested in another girl at the prom, and the evening was not a tremendous social success.
Fast forward decades.
My husband and I are rushing to the suburb where there is to be a send-off party, complete with photo-ops, for the senior prom at our grandson Zay’s high school. We had gotten an “e-vite” to the event, and our response was returned within seconds. Would any self-respecting grandparents miss this chance? It couldn’t come soon enough.
We pulled onto the street of the big send-off and stepped into a sea of young people — and cameras. It seemed that every parent, grandparent, sibling, neighbor and hanger-on was competing for the best paparazzi-op. There was subtle elbowing for the best vantage point, and initially no sighting of Zay and his date.
But then, there they were, virtually unrecognizable at first glance. Our grandson was in a spiffy tuxedo, his hair perfectly combed and groomed, and on his arm was an adorable young lady resplendent in a black gown with little Technicolor discs emblazoning it.
Standing on the sloping lawn of this home, whose remarkable parents were welcoming the invading armies with incredible grace and nonchalance, was our transformed grandson.
At first, I was afraid to hug him, fearful of somehow messing up his perfection — or, heaven forbid, embarrassing him. And for a long moment, I did nothing at all with the old-fashioned camera we had carried with us. I wanted to just memorize this moment and our grandson without benefit of technology.
The rest of the party was a blur.
The kids — and yes, I can’t get past “kids,” even though they are hardly that anymore — alternately delighted in the attention, and issued the “Enough already!” edict when overzealous relatives insisted on posing them in every possible backyard location.
The boys in their tuxes and boutonnières downed the dips and mini-pizzas. The girls showed more restraint, wary, I’m sure, of messing up their gossamer dream gowns.
Yes, so much had changed since the days of my powder blue prom dress with its yards of netting. And so much had stayed the same. The excitement, the smiles, the sense that this was absolutely The Event of senior year — all intact.
But a dramatic difference soon roared into view.
My father had driven my date and me to the prom. Neither of us had a license or a car. These kids and their families had pitched in on the rental of a “party bus,” one with flashing neon and every overdone bell and whistle.
That meant, one hopes, a safer trip to the prom site, the enormous delight of climbing aboard such a vehicle, and the practical notion of splitting the cost of what has, sadly, become a break-the-bank night.
So there we stood, two grandparents slightly dazed, definitely out of our element, but bearing witness to yet another milestone along the bumpy road to maturity.
Our last glimpse of Zay, the little boy we’d watched in sturdy overalls and then endless ripped jeans, was of another Zay, this one stepping onto the party bus in black tux, dimples very much in evidence. And yes, a brief wave in our direction.
Yes, Zay was off to his senior prom with a date by his side. The camera wasn’t handy. But the image is still safe.
It’s lodged deep in my heart. ••
