The Wedding Dancer
A friend was married last night. It was my first wedding to attend as an adult, and I had occasion to doll up. And boy, did I.
Red silk dress with white polka dots.
Pearl necklace and pearl earrings.
My prettiest garnet ring.
And bright red lips to match - the best accessory.
I felt like a million bucks...
So I looked like a million bucks.
All evening, the scotch was flowing freely, and freely flowing right into my belly. Scotch - when taken properly: neat with a splash of water - is a tricksy spirit because it allows your physical self to function, yet your weakened mind is controlled by any whim of that dickensy whisky. As such, scotch becomes a very manipulative spirit, fooling you into functional dementia. Oh yes, scotch often gets me into trouble, concocting harebrained plans that my body is functional enough to carry out.
My million dollar happy self was aglow with all the wedding love, and my million dollar happy ass was ready to shake it down on the dance floor. Securing a dance with an old friend, we began the slow dance with just a few other couples, and the rest of the wedding party watched. The dance was not at all jazzy enough for mine and Whisky’s standards, so a Dirty Dancingesque spin was in order. I held both of his hands, coming in close, and taking a slight step to the side. My right hand lets go, sliding across his body to reach his left hand. We are fully extended, me leaning out at a 60 degree angle and ready for my spin. I thrust myself under his arm, going for the twirl of twirls, and just as my twirling foot spins toward the pivot foot, I drop. I did not just fall; I dropped my whole self completely straight and completely on my side. There I lay, straight as a toothpick on my side, in my pretty red silk polka dot dress. But no, I was not going to let my spirit and ego drop down as well. Whisky and I had a recovery plan:
Turn it into a dance move!
I extend my arms straight above my head, stiffening and perfecting my now supine position. And then I rolled. Not a spin, no longer a twirl, but a roll. Just two long rollovers in my pretty red silk polka dot dress, and then I reach for his arm pulling my legs under me and twirling into a standing position. I met my dance partner’s reddened face, as well as the entire wedding party giggling off in the distance. I had not seen these people since high school, and I suppose this was a satisfactory and telling Amity update. Sticking with the lie, I oh-so-convincingly referred to my fall as something I meant to do, and I even threatened to bust it out again. He was adamant that I not. Despite his wishes, I threw myself to the ground retracing my routine with superb artistic calculation, all with the sincere conviction that the repetition of my moves would convince the bystanders that I meant to do it. Oh, what is possible within the whisky realm of reasoning. Soon thereafter it was very much time to go home.
How is it that every wedding has that Wedding Dancer? How is it that I unwittingly assumed this role? At any rate, every wedding needs the Wedding Dancer, and I am happy to have fulfilled this time-honoured tradition. As brilliant as mine and Whisky’s recovery plan sounds, I can assure you that its execution was not so artful. In reality, I merely costume my absolute mortification with the guise of a clever, whisky-inspired plan to save face. At least if face was not saved at the wedding, my own written account may do the trick.
Oh, what is possible within the whisky realm of reasoning.
Red silk dress with white polka dots.
Pearl necklace and pearl earrings.
My prettiest garnet ring.
And bright red lips to match - the best accessory.
I felt like a million bucks...
So I looked like a million bucks.
All evening, the scotch was flowing freely, and freely flowing right into my belly. Scotch - when taken properly: neat with a splash of water - is a tricksy spirit because it allows your physical self to function, yet your weakened mind is controlled by any whim of that dickensy whisky. As such, scotch becomes a very manipulative spirit, fooling you into functional dementia. Oh yes, scotch often gets me into trouble, concocting harebrained plans that my body is functional enough to carry out.
My million dollar happy self was aglow with all the wedding love, and my million dollar happy ass was ready to shake it down on the dance floor. Securing a dance with an old friend, we began the slow dance with just a few other couples, and the rest of the wedding party watched. The dance was not at all jazzy enough for mine and Whisky’s standards, so a Dirty Dancingesque spin was in order. I held both of his hands, coming in close, and taking a slight step to the side. My right hand lets go, sliding across his body to reach his left hand. We are fully extended, me leaning out at a 60 degree angle and ready for my spin. I thrust myself under his arm, going for the twirl of twirls, and just as my twirling foot spins toward the pivot foot, I drop. I did not just fall; I dropped my whole self completely straight and completely on my side. There I lay, straight as a toothpick on my side, in my pretty red silk polka dot dress. But no, I was not going to let my spirit and ego drop down as well. Whisky and I had a recovery plan:
Turn it into a dance move!
I extend my arms straight above my head, stiffening and perfecting my now supine position. And then I rolled. Not a spin, no longer a twirl, but a roll. Just two long rollovers in my pretty red silk polka dot dress, and then I reach for his arm pulling my legs under me and twirling into a standing position. I met my dance partner’s reddened face, as well as the entire wedding party giggling off in the distance. I had not seen these people since high school, and I suppose this was a satisfactory and telling Amity update. Sticking with the lie, I oh-so-convincingly referred to my fall as something I meant to do, and I even threatened to bust it out again. He was adamant that I not. Despite his wishes, I threw myself to the ground retracing my routine with superb artistic calculation, all with the sincere conviction that the repetition of my moves would convince the bystanders that I meant to do it. Oh, what is possible within the whisky realm of reasoning. Soon thereafter it was very much time to go home.
How is it that every wedding has that Wedding Dancer? How is it that I unwittingly assumed this role? At any rate, every wedding needs the Wedding Dancer, and I am happy to have fulfilled this time-honoured tradition. As brilliant as mine and Whisky’s recovery plan sounds, I can assure you that its execution was not so artful. In reality, I merely costume my absolute mortification with the guise of a clever, whisky-inspired plan to save face. At least if face was not saved at the wedding, my own written account may do the trick.
Oh, what is possible within the whisky realm of reasoning.
posted by Amity at 3:52 AM
2 Comments:
I love Scotch...Scotchie Scotch Scotch.
I feel the same about tequila..
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