As seen in the October Issue of Bella Magazine

Recently, I was driving down the highway with my van full of teens when a scary thing happened. The opening bars of “Stairway to Heaven” played on our car radio, and I broke into a cold sweat. “Turn it off! No, turn it up!” The kids looked at me as if I was a lunatic. Little did they know I was being transported back thirty years, to the gym of my junior high. Stairway to Heaven was the song that was always played during a slow dance.

For me, it’s still not happy song. In 8th grade I had thick glasses, shiny braces, and was the Webster’s dictionary picture of “awkward.” I wasn’t going out with anyone in those days, but hope sprung eternal when the school dances were announced. Maybe, just maybe, someone would ask me to slow dance.

In preparation for the Big Show, my friends and I would spend hours preparing. In particular I remember we soaked ourselves in Love’s Baby Soft body spray and smelled each other’s breath to make sure it was minty fresh. Just the perfect casual outfit had to be selected. You know, the one that says, “This old thing? I just threw this together at the last minute” even though we had spent hours trying and rejecting every single outfit we owned. All this preparation, leading up to….a few hours in a school gym.

I’m serious, lives were made and ruined in that place. Now, to enhance my already awkward appearance and uncool clothes, I made a radical decision. Although I am legally blind and can’t see 6 inches in front of my face, I would leave my glasses at home the night of the dance. This way, I was sure that hunks would be knocked over with my previously unrecognized beauty. (Most of my favorite movies have this exact plot.)

Blind, I’d memorize the colors of my friends outfits and ask them to describe what my current crush was wearing. Like a baby gosling imprinting on a mother goose, I could only follow blurry patches of color. If my friends left me alone, I was sunk. I couldn’t see a thing! I would have to sit on the bleachers until someone came to rescue me.

The place to avoid during a school dance was the bathroom. The smoking didn’t bother me as much as the crying. The bathroom was like Heartbreak Hotel. It was the place of refuge for girls fighting with their boyfriends, breaking up the night of the dance, or those who were not asked to dance. Emotions ran high in the Girl’s Room.

Back to Stairway to Heaven. For one, it’s possibly the longest song ever to be recorded. Okay, it’s actually about eight minutes long. But, if you add adolescent angst to it, it’s easily 45 minutes long. Just the introduction is over two minutes long. This gives plenty of time for hope to die a painful death.

“Maybe he just can’t see where I am standing.”
“Maybe he’s not wearing HIS glasses.”
“Maybe he’s checking his breath in the bathroom.“
“Maybe he doesn’t recognize me because I LOOK SO GOOD TONIGHT.”
Until finally, “Maybe he asked someone else.”

If a girl is asked to dance, she had the opportunity to say “yes,” relieved to not sit it out, or say “no” and keep her options open for the cute guy from French class to come over and ask her. If she says “no,” she may not actually be Smarter than a 5th Grader. In general, she hasn’t taken the Stairway to Heaven. She’s taken the Hallway to the Bathroom. The Walk of Shame.

Now, don’t feel too sorry for me. I did get asked to dance a time or two during those years. And let me tell you, dear friends, I don’t believe Led Zeppelin was thinking of slow dancers when they penned Stairway to Heaven. It may be universally recognized as one of the greatest rock songs of all time, but it’s really hard to dance to! It starts slow, but ends with some rock, and what EXACTLY are dancers supposed to do? The real couple clung to each other during the fast parts. Cheaper than a drive in, I guess. Sometimes they couldn’t tell when the music stopped. But what about me? Dancing with Matt from my Confirmation Class at Church? I am blushing just thinking of it. Awkward, awkward song.

Now my kids are old enough to go to school dances, and I pray they have good memories. To my young readers, I offer you these words of hope. Try not to cry. Laugh, instead. And don’t worry so much about your outfits. You’ll never remember what you wore, but the music will haunt you forever.

Martie Smith Byrd still can’t listen to Dust in the Wind, either. She nutures her 5 teens and pre-teens in Roanoke and tries to not scar them emotionally with happy tales like this one. To share your dance horror stories, write martiebyrd@yahoo.com.