I ran for prom queen. And lost.

This is how the world ends — not with a fizzle, but with your hand anxiously clenched in the hand of your platonic 6-foot-7 date, surrounded by the cheers of your classmates as they roar the names of the school’s prom king and queen for 2018, who are not the two of you.

This was not the plan! The plan was for your names to be called, and for the two of you to sweep to the center of your circle of adoring peers (who somehow unanimously voted for you, so they claim), while waving like Queen Elizabeth or a Barbie doll with carpal tunnel syndrome. “Hello, prom peasants,” you had planned to say into the microphone, “I am your new queen.” (Nevermind the fact that the school doesn’t technically allow prom royalty to make speeches.) Then, after pointing to the DJ and shouting “Hit it!,” you and your date would dance, surrounded by the sweating proletariat masses of adolescent adoration. For the rest of the night — or until 11 p.m. — congratulations after congratulations would pour in, and you planned to laugh your soft, humble Tinkerbell laugh and murmur your thanks — always being sure to add, “It’s just a silly title, but you are so kind.”

And then, when you got home, after finally shucking off your weighty crown — how heavy the burden of your people’s love can be — you had planned to place it in a cardboard box atop your photographs and carefully folded gown, so someday you could remind your own daughter of your glorious instant of acne-ridden affirmation. You’d remind her that high school is her golden years and everything else after is downhill (“Just look at me now, oh, to be 18 again, those were the days!”), and then, someday, you would force her to win prom queen, too, so that by living vicariously through her victory and supple young body you could recall for an instant that shining moment when, as a high school senior, you peaked. That dollar-store crown was yours, gosh darn it! You didn’t win. But you are comfortable in the knowledge that one doesn’t have to be prom queen to ensure their kids will need years of therapy.

After all, you still got to dance in the center of a circle of cheering individuals (on your knees, positively nailing the air guitar solo during your class song — Queen’s “Don’t Stop Me Now”). You still got to laugh and cry and boogie with so many of the individuals you love.

After all, it was pretty awesome when the couple who did win danced their dance to Smashmouth’s “All Star.” Kudos and hats off. It turns out that alone made them the more deserving royalty.