Culture Club "Karma Chameleon"

After agreeing to attend my first high school dance, the frightening reality hit me: I had no idea how to dance. Known as "Turnabout" at most schools (where the the girl asks out the boy), our school simply labeled the dance "Winter Formal". Easy enough, right? My friend, Mandy, invited me to the dance in November--providing me two solid months to figure out what the heck to do once I stepped foot on the dance floor. Most afternoons that winter, I escaped to the basement right after school and tuned on Chicago's B-96 (which labeled itself "Chicago's Dance Beat" back in those days) on my dad's stereo. The Winter Formal DJ was bound to play songs that were popular on the radio and I reasoned this gave me a chance to practice. A full-length mirror hung in our basement allowing me to take inventory of how stupid I looked while dancing. My goals were modest: find and master one move and stick with it.

Donning a rented tuxedo for the first time in my life, I stood among a houseful of camera-toting family members while awaiting my date and ride  as I was still only 15 years old. After endless "look over here" and "say cheeseburger" comments from my family, my brother failed to make good on his threat to drop a condom as I walked out the door. Thank goodness. That evening, I somehow wound up in a group of folks who were more popular (read: more attractive) than me and yet felt an awkward sense of calm. Since we were all sophomores, the majority of the couples had split up long before the dance but soldiered on as they likely didn't want to blow money on tuxedos and dresses for naught. Most of the guys in the group sat at our table with their arms folded while the girls danced with one another. Since Mandy and I were friends, there was no pressure or awkwardness like one would feel at prom because no matter what happened that night, Mandy's dad was driving me home.

For the majority of the evening, I danced. One could label my sole dance move "the snow ski" but, hey, I danced. In fact, I danced enough that other girls at my table complained to their indifferent ex-boyfriends that they should also be dancing with them. It didn't work. The majority of the guys had chips on their shoulders that refused to budge. Despite my practicing to B-96's dance music, the DJ mostly stuck to a vanilla playlist of tunes similar to what one would hear at a wedding reception. "YMCA", "The Electric Slide", "Shook Me All Night Long" played and, at one point, the DJ announced he was making good on a request for "Karma Chameleon". Weird. All told, I had a great time and (for whatever reason) didn't talk to Mandy much afterwards. It wasn't that we parted on bad terms, I just moved on and rarely talked to her again. Guilt would eventually get to me and later led to one of the more awkward phone calls of my teen life. Stay tuned for that story.