Freshman Foible?

It's the prom all over again. There was only one salvagable memory from that night, though, and now you're too old for it. (If you've gotta ask, you'll never know.) Yes indeedee, the Freshman Formal's dropped bait. And no one's biting.

Here's the scoop on this year's Yard interbreeding: all the dope freshmen girls are dating upperclassmen, leaving their male counterparts in a pathetic scramble for leftover booty. Rumor has it that FF ticket sales have hit a new low. "If the freshman facebook is any indication of our class, no wonder nobody's going to the formal," griped one jaded freshie.

Buck up, kids. You'll be there. They'll be there. We'll all be there. In droves. The UC's got the balloons and the DJ has "Come On Eileen" queued up.

And since you know you're going, some thoughts for the night. Underdress before you overdress, anyday. No spangles or rhinestones without accompanying mohawk. Lipstick must never match the dress, unless both are fire-engine red. Then you must wear matching nail polish as well. Never go to a hairdresser for an event that calls itself a formal, and just say no to nude stockings. As for the gown itself, well, bubble skirts are ironic. Puffy sleeves are not.

Appropriate venues for pre-dance dinner include Annenberg, Bertucci's, that new crepe place and the Border Cafe, where you will encounter muchos otros of your ilk. Neither Cafe Sushi nor Adams House is calling your names. Tonight is not the night to expand those horizons.

The corsage is passe. Boutonnieres are quite another story. "Cummerbund" has one "b." Say "how do you do," not "nice to meet you." Pass the salt and pepper together. Curtsey when you're thinking what to say, and don't scratch in public. Welcome to the jungle.

Cha-cha, yes. Salsa, no. Tango, yes. Fox-trot, no. Electric slide, please. Roger Rabbit, thanks but no thanks. Freaking, you betcha.

Flasks. Flasks are key. Grey rubber from the army surplus or silver, engraved, from Brooks'--just don't pull out some "Evian." Other accessories to consider: the dog collar, the watch fob and the sparkly butterfly barrette.

Trips to Mt. Auburn Hospital (they happen every year, kiddos) can pan out in style. One: Arrive in a cab, not a police cruiser, a shopping cart or a Harvard shuttle bus. Two: Make sure that your companions know your full name, lest the medics feel the need to phone Dean Nathans for a spell-check. Three: Have said companions, friends or lovers leave you two shoes and some cash. After all, you plan to spend the night.

Chances are, though, that won't be you. You will be the krazy kat kutting it up on the dance floor. Or the girl who sheds her nude hose and kisses a boy for the first time. Or the kid who knocks over the cheese puff table. Or the wallflower. One of many.

Confused? Yeah, well, you should be. You're a freshman.