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One of the two details I clearly remember about Friday is I wore new black patent flats with nude beige silk stockings snapped tightly by garter belt hooks. The rest is vague. On the other hand, perhaps my imagination is working overtime to create a believable story of my teenage years' chock full of social anxiety, so part of growing up.

This particular Friday night would be my lucky night. All young girls growing up in the 60s dreamed the identical dream. A dark-haired, handsome guy would sweep me off my feet and take me away to live happily ever after. (Later, that impossible fairy tale would shake reality into my brain like many other women who first championed feminism in the 70s). That's not what transpired. I remember sinking like silk stockings sliding down my legs, accidentally getting unsnapped from its hook. I rushed to the restroom and hid in mortal embarrassment in the far-left stall. If there was a window at eye level, I would have escaped to where I don't know.

Dad sold stockings in his linen store. I had the distinct advantage of always being with a pair for Sundays or special occasions. Often my girlfriends would moan in jealousy when their stockings would develop a run, which meant springing for a new pair out of their allowance. Still, dad would question me if I came in sheepishly asking for another pair - stockings were sold by the pair, half-dozen or a whole box of twelve - and he would ask if I was putting them on properly. There was a way to do that, too, and more gently than putting on tights or leggings today. 

The local Moose Club held dances for teens on Friday nights with a DJ spinning top 40 records. The joy of letting the week's confinement to high school got expressed through Elvis, Johnny Mathias, and Buddy Holly blaring from the turntable. 

The legal drinking age was eighteen. I was too naïve at fifteen to notice the parking lot filled with seniors milling around with younger girlfriends enjoying a beer. Mom or dad would drop me off by the door and wait for me to enter. I assumed this was a safe environment for socializing with my classmates and never thought more about it. Like other parents, mine checked the appropriateness of places, and I knew they kept a watchful eye from a distance. The primary forms of entertainment were the movie theater, church activities, drag races, and school dances. 

I furtively glanced around the room - an essential concrete building with minor frills - for a group of girls huddled together. It went over to my safety net. Boys in my class were shooting pool or hanging around the DJ, hands in their pockets as awkward as we girls. For some reason or other, the older boys came later individually, and we all waited to see their timed arrivals. We passed the evening by gossiping and sipping cokes slowly while hoping for a boy to ask us to dance. It was frowned upon for girls to partner together, and only two or three of the more assertive dared get out on the dance floor without caring one hoot if others were whispering about their daring natures. The chaperones walked among the dancers, especially during slow dancing, tapping boys on the shoulder if they were too close to their partner. 

About an hour into the evening, a light blond-haired guy wearing a leather flight jacket sauntered in as if he owned the joint, and I thought my heart would crash to the floor. My hands tingled, and I clutched my Coke for dear life while he went to the bar area to be greeted by other guys. I fixated my eyes on this college-age freshman who had returned home from music school for the Thanksgiving holidays. We had a little history of a couple dates at the end of his senior year to the movies and for a soda, as my parents approved of him. He was polite, which was the extent of our relationship. However, my diary was covered with yearnings for him all fall. Here he was in living color, and I was desperately trying to figure out whether or not he had spotted me. I stood slightly away from the others. That didn't work. I was too shy to walk up to him and say hello, which would have been the natural thing to do in that circumstance. The other girls didn't know anything happening in my head, and I decided not to share my thoughts.

The lights dimmed. The DJ put on "Chances Are," As the floor filled with couples, I saw him move across the room with a gleam in his eye. I straightened my skirt and smiled at him through the haze with my eyes piercing his blue ones. He nodded and, like all guys of the era, pointed with his hand to come dance. I took two steps forward. Suddenly, a senior girl pushed past me and took his hand. He wasn't coming to dance with me. 

Being on the fringes took a toll on my self-worth that evening. When I got home to my bedroom security, I peeled off my silk stockings with a vengeance. I rolled them into a ball before hurling my patent leather flats into the closet haphazardly. I hastily plunged my diary and movie magazines into the trash. No one would ever know how much I beat myself up with humiliation.

 Possibly I am exaggerating my embarrassment and lack of a social nature.