Brown hair, worn like a politician from the 70s. Freckles scattered about a strangely pale face. Huge ears, that turn bright red in the cold, heat, or anywhere within ten feet of a girl. Despite all of this, she said yes. I, Jonathan Adler, got myself a date to the annual winter formal, the Blue and Silver Ball. It all started the Thursday before the dance. I had waited and waited before asking one of the young ladies here at Andover, coolly searching for the right moment and the right girl. The general consensus at this school seems to be that the later you ask, the cooler, less desperate you are. If you ask ‘too early’, you’re a creepy guy who is trying to make sure nobody better asks your girl. But if you ask ‘too late’ then you’re just grabbing any girl you can find so you don’t get depressed the night of the dance. So, I thought two days before the dance was a perfect time to ask. Also, my grandmother was pressuring me. I saw her in Commons, and sat at her table, along with a few other kids. I figured it would be tougher for her to say no in front of other people. So after dancing around it for a while, talking about things such as the weather, recent medical appointments I’ve had and her favorite color, I popped the question. When she said yes, I quickly jumped out of my seat and ran out of Commons. I would, under no circumstances make any contact with her until the night of the dance. I’ve learned that it is impossible for a girl to change her mind when she doesn’t see you until the dance. I had two days to prepare for the ball, and there was much to be done. First, I took my weekly shower a few days early. Next, I went downtown to CVS and bought this soap you put on your arm pits, but don’t rinse off. After that, realizing I had no blazer in my closet, I felt ready for the dance. Saturday morning, I awoke confident and anxious, around 3 o’clock in the afternoon. There was little time to waste. I threw on some clothes and rolled downtown on my Razor scooter to pick up some flowers at Kabloom for my date. When I stepped into the florist, it seemed as though I had stepped into the Rockwell common room. At least fifteen awkward freshmen boys (and one lower, me) stood in the tiny room stuffed with flowers and testosterone. They looked at the flowers, and then at each other, and each debating calling their mothers for help. “Are the red ones good? Oh no, no I can’t get those- she’ll think I love her or something. What about pink? What do those mean? That’s friendship or something right? Nah, those are four bucks each…and they’re just gonna die, right? Oh man this sucks. Um, what’s that over there? Bamboo? That could be funny. Yeah, I’ll get her bamboo, you know, as a joke. No, no she’ll hate that. I guess I’ll just get that one there, yeah that. Oh it’s cheap too. Better throw some of that filler in there. Yeah that looks good. Alright I’ll take it. Eight dollars? Sweet.” I left Kabloom carrying my flowers, and after graciously smiling at every old woman who asked “Ohh, are those for me?” I was ready for the dance. We arrived at 9:30 to an 8:30 dance because once again, being late is cool. We danced, I fell in love with Cascada’s “Everytime We Touch”, and we drank punch. All in all, I’d say I did a pretty good job. So if any of my female readers are looking for a good time, come this spring, I’m pretty sure I’m available for the Abbot Ball. But then again, it might just be cooler to wait.
