A Merry Little Christmas Now

We get so very few perfect moments in our lives, and the irony of the matter is, we often don't realize their perfectness until after the fact. That in and of itself raises the question, was that moment really perfect? Or is it just dusted with a fine aura of nostalgia that blinds us to the reality of the situation?
One such moment was my 8th grade Christmas dance. I think I was wearing my favorite dress of all time. It was a knee length green velvet dress my mother had sewn. It had flared sleeves and a neat gold chain trim. I was the picture of Christmas.
I forgot to apply deodorant (give me a break, I was 14 and new to the gig) and I think I awkwardly shuffled to the bathroom to wipe my armpits about 20 times. Somewhere inbetween all that, I danced with boys. I was jittery and my palms were clammy. We touched each other awkwardly, struggling with the adultness of it all. It was still weird to have a boy touch your waist, so intimate. And tremulous, I felt so alive.
There were quite a few slow songs, and I got caught up in some bet with, of all people, a boy who would later become a high school boyfriend. Turned out he needed the cash incentive to act on his true feelings, which his friends knew. Next to the speakers, I missed everything he said in that decorated cafeteria. Another story for another time.
At this moment, I happened to have a crush on a one Jason Woodruff. He was the only boy I danced with twice, and I somehow scored the last dance to "Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas" with him. Everything--the music, the lights, the dress, the dancing, the jitters...I still look back on it with a great deal of fondness. It was a portrait of my innocence I wish I could have bottled and kept.
Over the years, I have heard that last song dozens of times. I even got on the nostalgia train and put it on repeat for hours in the years following. To be young and naive. I hope one day there is another dance, alone in a living room with glittering lights. An echo of a simpler time. Remembering the way life used to feel.
Sitting on the concrete waiting for my mom to pick me up, my stomach did cartwheels. Oh please, I hoped. Let this last.