< by Anna of Wanderlust in Chicago >

As I flipped through old photo albums for inspiration for this post, it became apparent that my time in high school was a nearly continuous cycle of dance seasons. There was homecoming, prom, Winter Dance (to break the dry spell between homecoming and prom), and Father-Daughter Dance. You know, dads in tuxes jiving with their daughters as a cover band plays Rod Stewart. The all-boys’ school down the road had their own dances too, so homecomings and proms were practiced in duplicate each fall and spring.

When I moved out of my parent’s house I unearthed a shoebox piled with professional dance photos, each print tucked neatly in its little black cardboard folder-frame, as well as reams of journal pages devoted to lists of vetted date candidates.

But my little memento box of dance photos is a mere trifle next to my brother’s massive repository of dance photos. It is now actually unclear to me if he ever went to school or was just at dances the whole time. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s at a dance right now. A charmer right out of the gate, he went to prom with upperclass-ladies as a freshman. He went to prom as a gay friend’s date. He hit up proms at other schools. When it came to dances, he was unstoppable.

After 10+ years, neither of us has thrown away our troves of dance photos. I’d like to think our respective grandchildren will see them some day and marvel at how young and happy we look. How dressed up and sharp we look. Maybe think we wore suits and Jessica McClintock gowns all the time. And then ask us to explain what “film” and “wallet-sized prints” are. I welcome the day.