You’ll find this hard to believe, but when I was a teenager I was high-strung. Impossible, you say, given the even-tempered paragon of tranquility I am now, but it’s true. Mind you, a combination of factors contributed to this diva angst--biochemical hurricanes, family dysfunction, an overachieving mentality, innate dramatic tendencies--but I have to claim it. One memorable interlude occurred prior to the Senior Prom. Working with my limited self-subsidized budget and not finding anything fabulous enough, I decided to make my own dress. It was to be a silver satin, sequined, beaded piece of designer heaven. I had become pretty adept at sewing by then but I didn’t take one factor into account: once you sew on satin, even if you pull the stitches out to make an adjustment, the needle holes remain. So, every few hours, even on the day itself, I would have a moment, call my long-suffering boyfriend, yell “We’re not going!” into the phone, and collapse in tears. Eventually he decided to stop ordering the side order of crazy with his prom date, came over, took me to his mother and sister, and turned me over to be dealt with. Which I was. Beautifully. Looking back now, I resembled Alice in Wonderland on acid, but I felt lovely. In Jane Yolen’s An Invitation to the Butterfly Ball, the forest creatures are all in a panic over what to wear. Dire threats and dramatic proclamations are made but they all turn out and turn up nicely. And…scene.
http://www.amazon.com/Invitation-Butterfly-Ball-Counting-Rhyme/dp/1563976927
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jane_Yolen
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