The year, 1968. The event, my senior prom. The dress, priceless. The gloves, hopeless. Me, dork queen for the night. I look at this photo and laugh. How glamorous I felt in my prom finery. I was dating a boy who had graduated the year before and was away at college. I needed a date and found the only boy who was still available. My geeky best friend. I was Senior Class Secretary, won that title with a campaign filled with candy and every unpopular kid in school. We wanted to beat out the cheerleaders and football players who were getting everything. Posters, speeches, and tootsie rolls handed out between classes got the attention of those who never looked at as twice. My flair for humor, tenacity to get things done, and a group of great kids who were as dorky as I was got me to the finish line. I look at this photo and have such mixed emotions. I hate how I look. But don't we all. Now I am the gal with turquoise jewelry, thrift store designer clothes, and driving a vintage corvette. The widow extraordinaire. That photo reminds me of the innocent young girl I was in high school who thought I could do anything I set my mind to. A trait that carried me through finding myself again after the death of my husband. So, dorks all over unite. There is work to be done.