STLWorkingMom

My name is Marijean and I’m a promaholic.

In my pre-prom years, those being between the ages of zero and 15, I dreamed of going to the prom. This, in part, I’m sure because I watched as my older sisters primped and dashed off with ruffly-shirted boys beginning when I was three or four years old. I remember, at the age of four or five sliding to the door in socks to greet the tuxedoed date of my eldest sister for her senior prom. I asked him, as only a little sister can, “Are you going to marry her?” Little did I know, as I learned years later, he’d actually asked. D’oh! (She said no.)

The prom trend in the house of my youth would have gone on until I was eight. Then there were my sisters’ weddings, Cinderella affairs that had me dreaming of satin and chiffon.

So I spent my pre-teen and early-teen years poring over Young Miss and Seventeen, eager to choose the perfect gown, sport the most bouffant updo and the dyed-to-match satin pumps normally reserved for bridesmaids.

I went to five proms. FIVE.

As I explained to the boy, aghast at this news (it’s hard to learn your mother had a life before you were born), three boys, five proms, three dresses (I’m getting to that).

Prom #1: Pink chiffon gown, floor length, ruffles down the back and a giant bow across my derriere. Oh yes, and puffy sleeves, what else? Hair poofed and in a banana clip with, (oh, the horror) a giant pink bow in my hair. What? It was 1987. I went to a private girls’ school, partnered with a private boys’ school for prom. The way to get the most prom-milage out of the season was this: date a public school boy. He came to my prom and I . . .

Prom #2: . . . went to his prom at the public school where I wore (get this) his MOTHER’S prom dress, circa 1965. It was pink (my color of choice during this ultra girly phase) and very Jackie Kennedy-esque.

Prom #3: My senior year in high school left me stranded sans boyfriend as he was off gallivanting at the University of Virginia. A close friend and another public school boy was also sans date, so, even though he was short(er) I couldn’t resist the call of the prom, so went to his, reprising the poofy dress at the public school (different crowd entirely).

Prom #4: My college boyfriend returned from college in the nick of time to escort me to my own school’s senior prom. I wore a gown made for me by a seamstress with a pattern for a wedding gown I had made in black satin. It was gorgeous. Because Seventeen magazine told me to, I tipped my long black lashes with blue mascara. I thought it was my final prom-enade.

Prom #5: I was past my prom prime, at the end of my freshman year of college, I realized only too late as I bailed out a friend whose girlfriend dumped him just weeks before my new boyfriend ’s (now my husband) alma mater’s high school prom. Confusing? Fortunately there was no emotion and it was just a goofy good time, with a bunch of us escaping to a carnival to ride the carousel in our finery. I can’t honestly remember which frock I donned for this foolish evening. I only remember running into my soon-to-be husband’s younger brother and suddenly realizing, “Oh lordy, I do not belong here.” I escaped the weekend unscathed and swore off proms for life.

Now, I’d say I’m a recovered promaholic, if only that were true. I’ve purposely arranged dinners out and trips to the mall (or the downtown mall, depending on my geography) to see the high school kids strolling about on prom night. I love gazing at the dresses on the racks this time of year, seeing the fashions change from year to year and being aghast at some of the horrors (last year; no lie; girl in a white strapless with obvious blue underwear and a non-strapless bra. Yikes.)

And of course, I can live vicariously through the boy, whose prom approaches. Last year I grew misty-eyed as he tried on tuxes at the local rental shop. And in four to five years, I get to do it again with the girl (assuming her father will ever let her date). I hope to be around to help my grandkids choose corsages and formals, assuming that the tradition of prom won’t go the way of mall bangs and blue mascara.

I promise though, I won’t attend another prom unless my senior center holds one when I’m very, very old, dancing the night away with the help of my walker.

Did you go to prom? How many? I’m I the biggest prom loser with FIVE under my belt? And please, confess what you wore; I’m dying to know!

It happens with frequency. I meet a new person and we get around to chatting about kids. They ask, “How old are your kids?” I pause and say, “Eighteen and eleven.” The reaction is always the same, but the words people say vary from “you don’t look old enough to have an eighteen-year-old,” to really crass obnoxious things that would have your jaw on the floor. I’ve heard it all. I’ve come up with a series of comebacks to these. Pick your favorite:

The Celebrity Reference: Yes, my husband and I were twelve when we flew to Malawi to adopt our son.

The Slam: That’s funny, you don’t look smart enough to have a job.

The Veiled Sexual Reference: Well, I assure you I’m old enough now and I was old enough then.

The Denial: I don’t? You’re kidding. Thanks! I just celebrated my 60th birthday.

The Shocker: I’m not. It’s another tragic story of pre-teen pregnancy.

The Lie: Actually, he’s my mother’s son, who we raised because mom was not interested in raising another child at 50. Keep quiet, though. We’re waiting to tell him until he has kids of his own.

The Turnaround: I was 19 when he was born. What were you doing at 19?

The Smackdown: Yes, we got married at 18, I had him at 19, finished college, owned a home and two cars at 25. We both have great jobs. Oh, and we’re still married.  

Of course, depending on the person, I try to match my reaction to their response. More often than not, I think of a sweet comeback a day later. Most of the time I just say, “Thank you,” modestly, as if I am much older than I look. This is bound to catch up with me eventually, I imagine. What would you say?

This one’s for you, Kelsey.

The devil of the thing about depression is that no one knows what causes it. Clinically speaking, it’s an imbalance of chemicals in the brain. Now, there are other kinds of depression, say, when life is hard and gets you down, or when you’re experiencing grief, caused by anything from a lost relationship, the death of a loved one or even the loss of a job. Those are bumps in the road, to be sure.

Depression, though, can happen out of the blue. One day you wake up and realize you’re cloaked in a shroud of gloom. So you give yourself pep talks. You tell yourself to “snap out of it.” You try various tactics; food, exercise, shopping, calling a friend. Nothing works. You re-examine your life and remind yourself there’s nothing to be depressed about. You look at friends who are battling cancer or who have difficult home lives and you say, I really have no right to feel this way.

Still, it persists.

It was a long time before I could admit to myself that what was happening to me was not my fault. I could find no reason for my sudden, inexplicable sobbing attacks. I could not bring myself to talk about it, or ask for help. I still find it incredibly difficult to talk about — simply cannot make the words come out of my mouth — but I’m trying; I really am. My whole life I’ve found it easier to write about that which I cannot speak, so here I am, writing my way through this.

An analogy: I once took a scuba diving lesson. I stood at the bottom of a deep end of an indoor swimming pool and looked up to the surface. I breathed, carefully, in and out. I felt utterly alone and was filled with anxiety over the effort it took just to breathe. Depression feels a bit like that. I would often wake up in the morning, mired in the pit of despair. My arms felt loose and heavily hung from my body. Everything felt flat. What I should enjoy, what I enjoyed in the past, I did not. I had, as Tom Hanks said in Joe vs. the Volcano, a brain cloud.

At the deepest point, when my family started to wonder what the heck was wrong with me; when my husband became profoundly affected by my sadness, I finally was able to drag myself to the doctor and start cleaning up this emotional mess. I’m being treated, as they say, and taking care of myself, as well. I hope by sharing this I will maybe nudge some other stubborn “everything’s fine on the surface” person like me, who’s really suffering on the inside, to get the guts and the energy to make a call and keep the appointment, to find out what’s wrong and start taking steps to recovering. I’m happy to report that I am already feeling remarkably better and fully expect that trend to continue. Tonight, at dinner, I laughed so much my cheeks hurt. I hadn’t done that in a long, long time.

There was a moment during some of the darkest days that shined like a star. The boy told me his friend, the allergist’s daughter had discovered this blog and read it in its entirety. He told me she was disappointed I was taking a break, and was looking forward to my break ending, and my next post. She, and all of you, have pulled me back here. I’ve missed you all.

The one or two of you that frequent this space by now may be wondering where I’ve been. It’s really not often I go so many days without a post. Sometimes when I’m traveling posts are sparse, but I can’t remember when I’ve neglected the blog for this long.

In short, I’ll just say that I’m managing parts of my life that take higher priority than this. I know you would understand; I know you would say you’ve been there. I’m certain I’ll be back, blah-ging soon but for now, in this and in other things, I’m taking a rest.

Before I log out I want to point you toward a few very close friends of mine. These are some of the people who keep me going, give me great advice, make me laugh (sometimes when I really need a laugh) and generally brighten my days. There are more of these people, thankfully, and you (hopefully) know who you are, but here are a few (with blogs) who have, especially recently, made a big difference. I love you guys.

If I’m not back by April, send out the search party. Make sure Aerosmith is leading it. Who wouldn’t want to be rescued by Steven Tyler?