In the current issue of People magazine, Patti Davis recalls her traumatic 1981 inauguration experience in an essay headlined, “A Night to Forget.” (Sorry, but no link. The magazine doesn’t post current articles online right away.) Here it is in full:

My father, Ronald Reagan, had just been sworn in as President, and as First Daughter I was “assigned” an Inaugural Ball for the evening. If only someone had auditioned me beforehand, they might have discovered what a bad idea this was.

After all, I may have been nearly 30 years old at the time, but I still had the petulant attitude of a young teenager.

Among the many problems with my new role was the uncomfortable (for the party planners) fact that I had no suitable wardrobe. I was a 28-year-old Topanga Canyon hippie.

I was still rebelling against my parents. They were, like, so plastic, man.

So it was arranged that designers would loan me clothes, including an evening dress. I tried to protest the long red ruffled loaner to no avail. I was convinced it made me look like a cross between a salsa dancer and a wind-up toy you’d find in a tourist shop.

Can you believe it? They treated me just like a child.

I’d also been loaned a man for the evening — the son of my parents’ friends. My parents swore I’d met him once when we were toddlers.

Oh, who am I kidding. I had a blind date for the inauguration. How pitiful is that?

I could have taken a guy I’d dated who worked at the Topanga gas station. He would have looked nice in a tux — as long as he didn’t smile. He was missing a front tooth. I guess the blond stranger was a better choice.

Actually, I’m not sure the gap-toothed gas dude even knew my name. I was sleeping with him only because it turned out that being a hippie wasn’t enough to horrify my parents. I had to kick it up a notch.

With my hair pinned up (apparently long hair was illegal in Washington), my date and I were led onto a stage in a huge ballroom, seated in metal chairs and told to stay there until my parents arrived. The crowd pressed forward. The women had big hair and taffeta ball gowns; the men gulped liquor from plastic cups. We sat. They stared. I ruminated on the merits of hara-kari.

It was awful. All those people were treating the inauguration like it was some kind of big deal, and didn’t pay the slightest bit of attention to my pain and humiliation. What about me? What about my feelings? Why did everything have to be about Daddy?

But that was then. It’s a new era, and change has come.

When you run out of things to say, throw in a few cliches. That’s my advice.

The Obama girls are too young to be sent off on their own, so I trust they’ll have a fun night. I also have faith that the tribal leaders who once designed these ritualistic affairs have now been replaced by normal people.

You know, normal like me. Me me me.

And I checked on the local laws. Long hair is now permitted in the nation’s capital.

By the way, I got even with Mommy and Daddy for making me go to that inauguration. A few years later, I showed my boobies to everyone.