GOD, I feel so old. For years, I have been blissfully ignorant of my advancing age, imagining that my school days were only a few years ago and my youth was stretching far ahead in front of me. But last week, I discovered, to my dismay that I am well over the crest of the hill and hurtling fast down the other side.
My babysitter had her graduation ball last week and when I joined my neighbours in giving her a rousing send off (and her escort a near heart attack when he clocked the posse of middle-aged women eyeing him up on arrival), I realised just how many miles I have travelled since my own ‘coming of age’. In stark contrast to my lovely minder, who looked elegant, sophisticated and confident in her graduation finery, I and my classmates were like overgrown schoolgirls who had just raided their grandmother’s dressing-up box.
Permed hair, pink eye-shadow and blue eyeliner were the order of the day as we gathered to get ourselves dolled up for the highlight of the school year. In an era of waste-not, want-not, the majority of us stepped out in borrowed dresses that could have told a story or two from their outings over the years. Peach, lilac and lemon were the order of the day, but I thought myself to be the height of glamour in a cream satin creation.
A recent romantic tiff had led me to declare that I would not be attending the dance at all but after some (slight) persuasion, I demurred and had a last-minute panic trying to find someone and more importantly, something suitable to wear to the ball. With a platonic friend on my ticket and the pair of us dressed in his cousin’s wedding attire (he in the suit, me in the dress) we were ready to rock and roll.
Now, in our day, (pass me my walking stick there), there was no such thing as limousines or carriages to ferry Cinderella to the ball, we had to make do with a car pool of parents or for the very flash, a local taxi.
As we were obviously (?!) part of the ‘cool’ set, we opted for a cab. Back-seat belts were not obligatory (or even considered) so despite the tangle of backcombed hair, eight of us piled into the back of the rented Ford Escort. Then we immediately piled out again as one of the girls realised she still had her jeans on underneath the layers of salmon coloured lace. A quick adjustment later, amid much squeals and laughter, we were off.
After a 50-minute drive, the four teenage boys had almost suffocated under a mass of taffeta, tulle and hairspray fumes, but we arrived at the palace and tumbled ungraciously onto the forecourt.
Immediately splitting up, the girls to the loo to reapply purple lipstick and pass round the Afro combs while our escorts sought out the bar to buy a round of orange juice (undoubtedly to add the contraband in their jacket pockets!). It was going to be a night to remember.
Huddled together in shades of pastel, we exclaimed over the ‘fabulous rig-outs’, the get-up of the teachers and the merits of the only unfamiliar escort on the dance floor. We ate, we drank, we boogied along to Johnny Fortune and snapped countless pictures for posterity. We had a blast. Little did we know that almost 20 years down the line we would discover those photos and marvel at our lost youth and innocence?
People say that youth is wasted on the young, but I disagree. At 18, you may have no idea of the hardship and sacrifice that lies ahead of you, you may not be cherishing every moment as if it is your last, but isn’t that the way it should be?
Giggling girls, cocky boys, fashion and frivolity – it’s the only time of your life that isn’t laden down with responsibility. Enjoy it while it lasts - and if anyone tells you otherwise, they’re only jealous.
Now where did I put my leg warmers, there’s life in the old dog yet!