It’s that time of year again when dads of daughters all over the country are experiencing severe headaches, watery eyes, shortness of breath and even hives. No, these symptoms are not from seasonal allergies, but from a traumatic phenomenon known as “prom season.”
With two daughters in college and one in high school, I’ve been a chronic victim of prom season for years now, and I’m left with the scars of several exorbitantly priced sequined gowns that were worn exactly once. My youngest daughter recently experienced her first “prom.” She attends a private Christian school where “prom” is called “banquet,” which is basically the same as a regular prom – only with Jesus, a dinner and parents.
Yes, at “banquet,” parents serve as a source of embarrassment and irritation to their children throughout the evening, whereas at regular prom, after an endless and torturous barrage of photographs in the backyard, parents are left behind praying and imagining the worst (that their children might behave like the parents once did).
My daughter’s first big step in the process of banquet was deciding whether even to attend – considering her sometimes extreme shyness. Luckily, her school administered some formal dancing lessons for the students to break the ice and demonstrate to her that all members of the male species might not be blundering idiots after all. (My wife has assured her that even though girls mature faster than boys, most boys eventually catch up – at around age 50 or so.)
The utilitarian preparations for banquet began several weeks before the event when my wife took my daughter and about a month’s salary shopping for a dress, matching shoes, cosmetics, jewelry and probably some other things I’m glad I don’t know about. My role was to receive and thoughtfully respond to about 500 text messages with photos of my daughter in an array of gowns that all looked the same. Most of my responses read something like this: “That one looks good. It’s red. How much is it?”
But that’s not all. A few days later, my wife somehow tricked me into running by Target for something called “petals.” She said they’d be near the bras, and they would look like “stickers.” I managed to find the “petals” and, surprisingly, get out of the store without being arrested. I’m still having nightmares about it.
Once we had the outfit (instead of the new propane grill I wanted), it was time to drop a couple of C-notes on a manicure and pedicure – since formal dresses aren’t usually accessorized with mittens and tube socks. When I took my daughter and her friend into the salon, the host asked me if I’d like to have my nails done while I waited. I declined, explaining that I’d had mine done about 10 years ago – so I was still good.
I’m happy to say that the banquet was magical for us. My shy, beautiful baby daughter blossomed among her friends and classmates, and she danced with several young men whom I didn’t even have to threaten beforehand. I guess prom season might not be as bad as I thought.
So why are my eyes still watering?
Copyright 2023 Jase Graves distributed exclusively by Cagle Cartoons newspaper syndicate. He is an award-winning humor columnist. Contact Graves at firstname.lastname@example.org.