Everything about prom is a lie

You don’t need an expensive designer dress that you’re only going to wear once.

Don’t have a date? Who gives?

MANILA, Philippines - People usually have funny memories of prom night, especially when you ask them about it years later. I do too, but at the time, there wasn’t anything funny about it because for me, prom, one of the seminal experiences of every teenager, ended in tears.

I remember being excited about prom when I was about 11 or 12. This was when all the classic ‘90s teen movies came out: She’s All That, 10 Things I Hate About You, Never Been Kissed, Can’t Hardly Wait — it was that point in the aughties when Freddie Prinze, Jr. was everywhere, just right before his career went nowhere. I’m guessing my voracious consumption of teenage dreams and promises, processed and repackaged by Hollywood for mass consumption, raised my expectations considerably because back then, I couldn’t tell the diff between expectations and reality.

Even though I wasn’t a freshman yet, I had my cousin Stephanie sketch me a prom dress. I knew for sure that I wasn’t going to be one of those girls who went to prom stag. My vapid teenage self presumed that was for girls who weren’t pretty enough to get a date. I know. Somebody should’ve slapped me, but I didn’t have anybody who cared enough to do that. I snuck out to different soirées, enduring lame icebreakers hoping to find a boy who would stiffly place his arms around my waist as we got our photo taken against a fake backdrop with painted clouds.

For all my premeditation, though, nothing went the way I wanted it to because that’s not how life works, especially not for someone so arrogant (i.e. Me). Try explaining that to a teenage girl, though. But for all my fervent soirée attendance, I ended up asking my mom for help with finding a prom date. That was probably a bad decision in hindsight, but she said that her friend’s son looked like Borgy Manotoc and that he would be willing to take me. When I met Bizarro Borgy for dinner the night before prom, I realized that my mother had no idea what the real Borgy looked like, but by then, it was too late.

A few hours before prom, I remember sitting in the parlor, getting my hair curled, telling the makeup artist that my dress was magenta. He proceeded to take out a brush and apply a florid hue to my eyelids. I didn’t know anything about makeup, but I knew better than to challenge a gay man. When he was through, I remember looking in the mirror and feeling conflicted. Makeup was supposed to make you look pretty, but instead, I looked like a lounge singer in a three-star hotel. In the ‘80s.

Prom night itself, to be honest, was painfully dull. I remember forever waiting in line to get our photos taken. The food was cold by the time we got to sit down to eat. I danced a little bit to bad music, but my heels pinched my toes. My date and I barely spoke. Afterwards, he met up with a couple of his friends in Greenbelt and they decided to hitch a ride in his Benz. As I wobbled towards the parking lot, he hung a good three meters back with his buddies until I overheard one of them telling him that he should be walking beside me instead of letting me go off on my own, and I acutely remember feeling incredibly sorry for myself.

It’s wasn’t him, though. Not really. He was just being a boy. It was me, finally coming to terms with the painful awkwardness I felt about myself all throughout high school. I waited until the 11th hour for my Laney Boggs moment, hoping to suddenly glance at the mirror and see that my wildest teenage dreams had come true. Instead, I felt more like Josie Grossie, stuck with a date who preferred not to walk beside me to his car.

Suffice it to say, my prom sucked, but guess what? I turned out okay. I didn’t develop a phobia of formal evening functions and occasionally, I do like to party. In fact, if I may so myself, sometimes I look pretty damn good while I’m schmoozing. But the worst and least helpful thing to tell a teenager is to gain some perspective because — news flash! — you don’t have enough life experience after a decade and a half to place things in the grander context of your life.

Since I can’t go back in time and slap my 16-year-old self, let me try and give you a metaphorical smacking: You don’t need an expensive designer dress that you’re only going to wear once. (Trust me, you will really only wear it once.) Your eyeshadow won’t determine how your night goes, but if you stick to browns and golds, you’ll definitely feel less self-conscious. Don’t have a date? Who gives? Would you rather go stag and have fun dancing silly with your friends or be stuck with some person who is barely enthused by your company? And if you have a date, for the love of Heath Ledger (RIP), be a gentleman. Open your date’s door, bring her flowers and treat her royalty, even though your mom forced you to go. If you’re a girl, actually see your date as a human being with feelings instead of a human photo op.

And if despite your best efforts, nothing still goes the way you expected, chalk it up to experience and remember: It’s just one night, among the many nights you will get all gussied up and have fun with your friends. One of many, many — did you forget? Dude, you’re heading to college.