By Peter Seidman (Toronto, ON)

Sandy's Worst Date:

It's prom night, and I'm standing in our living room wearing a vintage rental tuxedo rejected by all until I came along. A heavily starched frilly white shirt clings to my chest, and a clip-on black bowtie completes the ensemble. A cummerbund, which I originally thought was the name of a German cake, holds my pants up.

Looks like the one I wore way back when, my father says, shaking his head. I told you not to wait until the last minute.
So now I know.  

When I pick her up, Sandy appears less than pleased with my fashion sense tossing off comments like goodbye, and I'm not going anywhere with you but after a half-hour of tearful begging, she finally agrees to accompany me out of pity which you have to admit is better than nothing.

It's unusually hot inside the gym which has been decorated for the prom, and I'm dancing up a storm in a dark corner, Sandy kind of looking on, when my sweat chemically reacts with my starched shirt causing it to scroll upward, and out of my pants; at the same time the cummerbund loosens, and my pants slide slowly down my legs, and I'm doing a version of the Macarena long before it becomes popular. My left hand rolls my shirt down, and my right hand tries to pull my pants up. Left, right, left, right.

My God! Sandy cries. What are you doing? I'm leaving!
NO!!!! Don't follow me!!

I didn't.

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