It's a most wonderful time of the year for American teenagers. Soon, all will be embarking on one of those defining rituals -- in this case the prom. Businesses which sit dormant for most of the year like they have been hit by a late winter freeze suddenly blossom and grace our presence with articles too peculiar for everyday use.
In order to attend the prom, students must charter a hefty rolling rectangle transformed by a crack, industrial unit, perhaps granting vo-tech students with a few moments of wickedly unstylish payback.
They must also don a (polyeste)r monkey suit which actually fares better with Instagram than modern photo programs, the tux having changed quite little over the past 50 years. Last in the excessive trifecta is the corsage, a poor step-brother to the classy boutonnière worn cooly in the lapel buttonhole of a Frenchman.
It's prom time everybody -- a couple of days which forever leave an imprint but will mean absolutely nothing three days from now -- less memorable than the yearbook which we can at least put on a shelf and retrieve. Nevertheless, the season is upon us and we should stop and take a short look at the glory which we feel until someone asks us what it is all about. Then we mumble something stupid like because.