The tux was probably hard enough. And that corsage. Nothing in a boy’s childhood experience even remotely prepares him to pin a flower on a girl’s chest with a straight pin. I thought about all this as I sat at a local restaurant last Saturday evening and watched a poor kid struggle to order dinner for his prom date. The poor kid looked at the menu like it was the Rosetta Stone, turning and twisting it, trying to make sense of it all.

He reminded me of myself on prom night many moons ago.

Going to the prom was my grandmother’s decision, not mine. She thought all young men should go to the prom. It helped build culture and class, she thought. And bless her heart, she just wanted me to appear normal, which was no easy task.

But at that point in my life I was the farthest I’ve ever been, before or since, from tuxedoes or any other formality. It was the early ’70s, a time of non-conformity. My attire of choice then was jeans, Army jacket and desert boots. On some days I might throw on a pair of purple or flowered pants.

But a couple of my friends were going to the prom, so I decided it was OK for me to go, too. At the very least, my misery would have company.

Now up to that point my relationship and dating experience could be summed up with the handing out of Valentine’s Day cards and the passing of those “do you love me?” notes with boxes for “yes” and “no” scrawled on them.

Teachers made everybody give everyone in class a Valentine, so I got plenty from girls. No matter they asked for them back after class was over. And my love me “yes” and “no” notes only had “no” boxes on them with a notary public seal.

But I somehow managed to get a prom date. It was a neighbor girl who lived a few blocks down the street. She was a real sweet girl and as smart as a whip. Smart women intimidate some guys, which is probably why she was available in the later rounds.

I made the date on a city bus. I figured if I asked her right before she pulled the cord for her stop, I’d have a better chance of her saying yes. She’d be so pre-occupied with her travels, she’d have little chance to think about her answer.

In her rush, “Wanna go to the prom?” sounded a lot like, “Is it going to rain?” so she said “yes.” I was good to go.

Prom night arrived with a laugh track. Imagine one long “Three Stooges” episode, with one stooge doing all the weird noises and pratfalls. That would be me.

It took exactly one hour to put my date’s corsage on. She had more straight-pin stabs than a voodoo doll when I finished.

And my first prom just happened to be my first time eating in a restaurant. My family just didn’t eat out.

Sometimes I’d get a hamburger from Slick Gamble’s pool hall or a hot sauce-covered drumstick on a slice of white bread from the East Side Cafe. Other than that, if my grandmother or mom didn’t cook it, I didn’t eat it.

Having a sit-down meal in a fancy restaurant was what rich folks did. Now here I was at 16 years old, looking like Jethro sitting in some fancy place. I think I tucked my napkin in my collar.

By some enchantment, we did get through the evening. I never went to the prom again. And my date never spoke to me again until we were both well into adulthood. Well, she told her mother to tell me hello once.

Alonzo Weston’s column

is published Wednesdays.