“Time is the wisest of all counselors.”

- Plutarch

2007 is cruising on by. As I look at the calendar I am seeing that we are rolling through yet another month, but I don't know what I've been doing all year. I mean is it just me or doesn't it seem like we were just celebrating New Years, like, yesterday?

What can I say? I must be losing track of time. And that's life; which is to say, time. Time to get cracking. Time plays tricks on you.

Time to start over. No time like the present.

I have no problem living a life filled with timeless cliches but there is always one phrase that doesn't hold much water with me. Time heals all wounds.

The hours spent on the therapist's couch should be proof enough of that. Of course I'm talking about my prom.

In the coming weekends we'll start seeing the limos rolling by; which act as a reminder of that evening so many years ago.

For girls, the prom is a chance to enter into womanhood dressed to the nines. Hair done, nails polished, and of course, a dress that will define them as beautiful.

Truth be known every teen goes through a gawky period at some point, and mine was highlighted between the hours of 11 a.m. and midnight on that fateful day.

I had a date, though we were going as “friends.” So you know what that means. I was fine with that because the girl I originally asked had said no.

I ended up taking a girl from my BOCES cosmetology class. (Yes, you read that right, I was a beauty school drop out, so that should shed some light on my early career making abilities).

I rented a tux, made dinner reservations and ordered a corsage. I shaved for the first time that night and even splashed on some Old Spice from my dad's dresser.

I even had a little swagger to my walk, though I had recently switched to boxers, so that might have had something to do with it, but still, I had the illusion of refinement if not all the skills.

At this point your probably thinking that it seems like every other prom story; perhaps even your own, but, my friends, this is where we part ways.

The elegance melted away as soon as we got to the mini-golf course. Oh, did I forget to tell you?

Yeah, since I was such a Casanova I thought it would be a class move to play a round of putt-putt before we went to the restaurant. It only got worse from there. My dancing skills at 17 involved basically slowly tilting back and forth in a circle until the music stopped. But we made it through.

I was relieved when the night ended until I remembered that there were formal pictures taken, and that only meant one thing: blackmail.

My brother has only recently let me live it down. What can I say?

Some things just take time.

Auburn native Bradley Molloy's column appears here, each Sunday, in The Citizen.

He can be reached at lovonian@hotmail.com