Senior Dinner

If you've been reading my blog regularly, you know that I've had some, uh, issues with the Senior Dinner celebration. After all, I was the one who suggested that we have a "Carrie" themed senior prom back in high school, and an attitude like that is sure to lead to problems later in life. The world just seems more suited for social events than I am — since I never had a group of five or ten friends to register with, I signed up as an individual, knowing full well that nothing good happens when you're alone. 'Taint natural to be lonesome. — Thorton Wilder, "Our Town"

When you register alone, you get to choose your own table, sitting with all the other social disasters who couldn't muster up four friends. This is why Bailey's Irish Cream was invented, and I'm pretty sure the reason it tastes like chocolate-covered fire ants is to keep people like me from overdoing it. Anticipating the awkwardness that could only come with a three-hour long senior pseudo-icebreaker, I convinced Erica and our friend Vik to start off the evening with a few glasses of Bailey's and Citrona before dinner. No, it wasn't all that hard to convince them.

My fears were unfounded. Erica has nine friends, so she got a table. Vik also has nine friends, but he didn't bother registering, so he and I shared table 88 way in the back with eight invisible companions. And drinking. Nasty white wine with salad. Nasty red wine with the chicken, which was breaded and served with that same radioactive orange sauce that caterers reserve for junior proms and dinners in tents. I spent the night engaged in my favorite hobby: looking for people I know and then waiting for my Paxil to kick in while I build up the nerve to go talk with them. I ran into a few people, had the obligatory futile conversation with them — "Hey, how are you? It's been such a long time, I never see you around! How've you been? What are you doing after graduation? [awkward silence.....] Well, it was great seeing you again. I'll talk to you later." A lie. How damn disappointing.

And the night would've been a waste except that right before I left, Erica, in a drunken stupor she still denies, sent me on a mission to find Sarah. I was walking around the tent, about to give up, when I spotted Sylvia. Sylvia's a great person to spot at any event because, unlike yours truly, she knows everybody and she's like human serotonin. She got herself right in front of the stage, at the table of honor with the mouthwash-colored alcohol that I'm guessing was brandy, and there would have been much high-pitched screaming and happy hugging on her part had not the a capella group Uptown Vocal taken the stage and led the senior class in a rousing and pointless rendition of our irritating school song, "Roar, Columbia, Roar." I shrugged off to the sidelines and resisted the urge to kill the entire senior class with a plate of radioactive orange chicken. There was much high-pitched screaming and happy hugging and photos — don't forget the photos! — when the song was over.

As an aside, I learned something important from Hanna and Harrigan: chicks love talking about their weddings. The ceremony, the location, the dress, the invitations, the reception, the caterer, whatever. I did my best to put the testerone aside and get engrossed in the details of Sylvia's upcoming wedding. Smile and open your eyes real wide when she shows you the engagement ring. I have a feeling Sylvia now thinks I'm gay.

Nevertheless, I really couldn't follow the description of her dress. I just don't have it in me.

Okay, I want to wax philosophical about the experience, but I've got real work to do. More dinner talk tomorrow.