Everything but the Formal

Night Before
Pack bags for tomorrow, taking care to double-bag the dress in nondescript opaque bags, for fear of maternal disapproval at skirt length. Look at skirt yourself, and wonder what the hell you were thinking. Go over mental list five times, so as to Not Forget Anything. At each pass of the list. Remember something new. Halfway through the sixth pass, think "blow this". Go to bathroom.
Look in mirror. Notice that at 21, you have creases in your skin. realize that while you don't have any $5000 creams to erase wrinkles, you do have Photoshop. Make a mental note to screw posterity and smooth all creases with the wonders of digital altering. While forming this plan, suddenly notice that your eyes have slightly different eyelids, and therefore are of different shapes. Wrack brain, find nothing about how to fix facial asymmetry, curse parents for the clearly inferior genes you were given. Stare at your eyes longer and longer, getting increasingly annoyed, until your brother walks by the bathroom, walks back, and asks
"What the hell are you doing?"

"Painting my toe nails"

"...Right."

Paint toenails.

Day Of
Kelly Clarkson screams "Since You've Been Gone" at 6:00 am. You curse the radio, roll out of bed, crawl into the shower and proceed to scrape a blade over your skin while still half asleep. You get dressed, and grab the prepacked bags. Get on bus, go to work. Watch clock obsessively until you are free to go. Run out door to catch bus, and walk briskly to hair salon while scanning windows for cute handbags for formal. Reflect that this moment of multitasking "handbag" and "hair" is probably more air-headed than your entire year thus far. Prove yourself wrong by spending the rest of the walk reminiscing at the other ditzy things you've done since January.

Get hair done by fabulous gay hairdresser, and discuss boys, and how they are overrated and clearly not worth anyone's time. Agree that if only sexuality was a choice, you'd both choose women. Hair done, you are told by another stylist (female) that your hair will turn you into a sex machine, and that classy promiscuity relies only on the hair style. As your stylist swipes your visa, he says matter-of-factly "it's true."

Limo
A tricky game of photo-op musical chairs is played, with the added challenges of low ceilings, moving floors, alcohol and short dresses. Hilarity, and photos, ensue. Suddenly the limo stops, throwing you into the torso of your friend's date, and throwing the random guy who missed his limo into your hand, sending a half-empty glass of champagne flying, to land perfectly upright on the floor, devoid of any champagne. Your neighbour thanks god the window was open, while a pedestrian finds himself sprayed with eau de henckel trocken. You all look out the window, and spy fellow formal-goers. You have arrived.