By accident, I found the only photo of me, dressed perfectly in a tuxedo (rented for the occasion) and bow tie, heading to my junior prom. At the time, everyone was listening to the song “a white sport coat and a Pink Carnation.”
Boy, I look great. The photo is in terrible shape, but my smile, crewcut, and cummerbund are visible. It was a night to remember, even though it was decades ago.
My date, Diana, and I went to dinner beforehand at A Sabella’s restaurant on Fisherman’s Wharf in San Francisco. She looked terrific; we were the perfect prom couple, sitting by the window, looking as grown-up as possible while clearly teenagers.
Two especially memorable things happened at the restaurant. One, Diana ordered mahi-mahi fish as her entrée. When our meal arrived, she looked at her plate and asked me: “Is this the same fish as Flipper”? I said it wasn’t, but she wouldn’t eat it, so she ordered some other local fish and was happy again.
The second thing happened as we were leaving the restaurant. The entry (and exit) involved a kinda’ long stairway. Being the polite date I am, I was behind Diana as she descended. She slipped about a quarter down, sailing down the remaining steps to land at the entrance.
It was a spectacular sight; fortunately, the only damage was to her pride. Yet, through her tears, she blamed me for the accident. Probably because when she slipped, I confess: I burst out laughing. That was not very gallant of me.
We got through that incident and had a super time at the prom and throughout high school. We’ve been in touch a few times over the years through that dumb site “Classmates.” I guess she’s forgiven me; she told me that she told her granddaughter about the entire event and how much fun it was.
Thanks, Diana.
Are we there yet? 