Well, it's that time again. It happens once every year. I wish I would be struck by lightning or break a leg or something. Oh, my heavens, what did I say? I really don't have to be so drastic to explain to you about my condition. The cure to my trauma would be ever so easy if I were ugly, short, and miserable. But unfortunately, I'm not, I happen to be perfectly lovely in every conceivable way. Anyway, what I am nonchalantly trying to say is, the GIRLS' CHOICE DANCE is coming up, and once again I'll probably be almost maimed. That's not the worst of the dilemma though, once they catch you and stab you with the inevitable question, "Would you go to the Girls' Choice dance with me, huh, huh, huh?" What are you going to do? Gentlemen have long been confronted with this problem, and are forced to go through hideous punishment because of their chivalrous ways. I found the whole thing perfectly macabre, but I also found an answer. I hid. But how long can that last?

It wasn't long after I appeared publicly that I was attacked again. This time I accepted. I had to. She was 500 pounds squeezed into 4ft. 9 in., and sported a right hook that would have terrified Mr. Dempsey. It was while she was sitting on me that I accepted. She wasn't the type you play hard‑to‑get with!

This was the beginning of the end. Did you ever sit down and think about the kind of corsage your female friend was going to make you? I did, and it was a horrible, horrible mistake. The first thing that popped into my mind was, "What is the main interest in her life?" After looking at 5 tons of woman, your answer wouldn't be "exercise." So all sorts of fiendish images began to flash before my mind. A corsage of spaghetti with I'll Meat You at the Ball," or a piece of pie with "You Were My Thrill on Blueberry Hill."

First she's supposed to pick me up. She'll probably run up to my door, bang on it a few times, then as I timidly open it one muscle bound arm will grab me and carry me to her motor scooter. When we get to the dance she will glide onto the floor, like a landing B‑52, and we will start to dance; she's the type who likes to lead, too.

Going out to eat will be the worst part, I bet. But then she did mention something about a French restaurant, Henry's, I believe. It could be worse though, it might have been me who was paying for the bill.

My night will be completed with the ride home. There will be with moon shinning down on her convertible motorcycle, her arm will be around me, in a headlock, she will stop in front of my house, walk me to the door, look at me tenderly and decide to kiss me goodnight‑just as I smile. Thank heavens the Girls' Choice comes only once a year!