I wish I could remember enough about the mom prom to tell you about it. For those who don’t know me personally, let me assure you that 364 nights out of the year I am asleep by 10:30pm. My evenings are spent drinking herbal tea and reading historical fiction. Most nights I am content to sit on my couch, making fun of my husband and laughing at my own jokes, or maybe binging on some Netflix with him. Sometimes he tries to talk to me about innovative chicken farming methods, in which case I feign illness and get into bed even earlier.
But for the second year running, Mom Prom is the exception to the rule.
Perhaps you, the viewer, will disagree. But I happen to find these photos to be rather forgiving. (Maybe thats because I know what I looked like when I got home.) The wonderful Megan of Shuttershock Photo Booth very graciously chose to omit any photos in which I may have fallen over or done a split, or suffered a wardrobe malfunction or whatever else in my thrifted 1970s sequined pantsuit. If you want to have a rollicking good time but make strangers on social media believe that you kept most of your dignity, hire Meg.
What is Mom Prom? Mom Prom is a fabulous lady’s only event and fundraiser hosted by our local chapter of ICAN- the International Cesarean Awareness Network. I can’t really speak for ICAN chapters across the universe, but clearly the Sarasota branch throws a damn good party. Mothers show up in sparkly attire, peruse the raffle prizes, eat and drink as they please, enjoy uninterrupted conversations and get low on the dance floor.
They also, evidentially, get too close to the camera.
On the morning after Mom Prom, my own mother took me downtown to pick up my car. I left it behind the night before like a responsible adult. I proceeded to tell my mom the sordid details of my hangover. Yes, I woke up to Celeste singing at the top of her lungs. I managed to make it from my bed to the couch and no further. I sat there picking sequins off my skin and barking at the children to be silent. I wondered if this was what parenting was like in the sixties, minus the smoking indoors. Tim was very helpful. No, I hadn’t eaten anything. I had been drinking buckets of water since dawn.
“You’re supposed to eat a greasy sausage McMuffin when you are hungover,” my mom told me. Oh, but mother. For a health conscious hipster like myself, that’s tantamount to buying heroin. I would have to wear a burqa in the drive-thru. And I don’t own a burqa.
Since I couldn’t get the damn McMuffin off my brain after she mentioned it, I ended up with some sort of gouda bacon egg croissant thing from Starbucks, which was splendid, and yet probably not all that ethically superior. But it is pretty to think so, in the words of Ernest Hemingway.