Prom night has always packed pressure. These days, the bright white limo costs a bundle, and every young one piled inside competes to stand out. If you’re a girl, your historic dress has to be just right to please you, your modest mom and dad, who sprang for it, while still enough to stun your date. If you’re a perfectionist female, who attended prom in the 70s or 80s, when it was all supposed to match, your shoes ought to blend, and might have been dyed to echo the big-wave-like ruffles of your bright blue float, er, dress. (Remember having blue ankles for two weeks?) If you’re a guy, you’re likely striving to seem confident and debonair for the first time in your short life, as you greet your girl’s somber pop and accept hugs from her giddy mother, who scrubs a spot of dried blood from your freshly shaven cheek, only making it bleed more. What happens next in America usually involves too much cologne reapplication, too much dry ice…and is a DJ-pumping study in chaos theory. Baltimore, please tell us your worst or weirdest prom memory, for a chance to win dinner at a pre-prom-worthy eating establishment soon to be announced. Think of it this way: You’ll get to go on an adult date in style, in non-candy-colored duds, and achieve post-prom catharis at the same time.
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