At any age, going to a
prom party can induce the shiver of dress-up anticipation with the fear and potential discouragement of not finding that exact combination of frock and fanfare to flounce about in. I mean - we are girls, we wanna look nice.
It's essential.No dress within my grasp made me wanna grab it and go. The brocade number at home would need an armload of grease and a second pair of hands to get on. What to do , what to do.
Then, in a morning spurt of ingenuity I plumbed the depths of my existing closet and pulled together a silly plan. I would become
Mrs. Heimlich Mortimer -
Dance Chaperone.
I left
Mr. Mortimer at home that evening, comatose in the vinyl
barcalounger that he makes his horizontal home. I sipped from a small flask so that I was fortified to deal with the night's shenanigans. Those young whippersnappers couldn't get anything past me -
inebriated or not.My accent was a little broad, my humor even broader. Some friends (giggle) didn't even know it was me.
Prom Night was never so good.
