You know what I hate? I hate when I am listening to ridiculous pop hip-hop music, trying to shake it so hard I dislodge my fillings, and then they have to go and break the beat for several measures while the artist — the chicas are particularly egregious offenders — swoops into this ridiculous WAY-OHHH-WAYYY-EEEEIIIIII-OHHHH-YEAHHHHH singsongy thing, kind of like they are trying to perform a pop hip-hop opera, and so I stand there awkwardly for a minute like: I don’t know how to dance to this. I don’t care about your vocal range. Give me the fucking BASS BACK.
I can’t dance, by the way. I like to think I can, especially when I am fortified with vitamins.* But then I catch sight of myself in a mirror and my arm is doing some wonky thing and I’m biting my lip, yes, biting my lip, even though I know that is quickest way to out yourself as the ultimate white girl dance dork. That still doesn’t stop me, though. What I lack in skill I make up for in enthusiasm.
Then I go directly home and put on some Joy Division. Because I can only stand so many lyrics like:
“T, to the A, to the S-T-E-Y / girl you tasty” **
Before my brain starts to wither.
Oh yeah, weddings. How does all this pertain to weddings? I don’t know. I’m sorry, OK? I am not a professional blogger. I am just a chick with a keyboard and a WordPress account and unrestricted internet access. These are dangerous things in the wrong hands.***
Dancing. Weddings. Dancing at weddings. See? I had a topic the entire time.
The beau, in what I suppose can be classified as a reversal of gender stereotypes, wants to take dancing lessons before the wedding. Me, I am like, eh? Whatever. Because while the tiny sliver of myself that secretly wants to be a star wishes we could pull off some ridiculously campy choreographed performance, the reality of the situation is that we can get away with doing the classic prom shuffle-sway for our first dance and no one will notice or even care. In fact, they will probably be too engaged in conversation with their tablemates or too preoccupied taking shots to even watch us most of the time. This is a little truth nugget I’m going to carry with me like a precious gem, for those times I get all squirmy and hand-wringy about ohmigod center-of-attention-anxiety.
Slight aside: The fact that the beau wants to take dancing lessons at all suggests that he doesn’t recall that one time when we took a free basic salsa class and proceeded to step all over each others’ feet. I was always a half measure behind, and in misdirected frustration I hissed that maybe his arms were too short,**** and he didn’t seem to want to dance with me after that. I know, I can’t figure out why either. But if he wants to give it another go-round, I’m totally game.
Still. Lessons or no, I imagine we probably won’t get much farther than the basic shuffle for the first dance. This matters to me naught. For soon we will reach the vitamin-enhanced, put-on-your-crazy-face part of the wedding celebration. I’m definitely not making any guarantees on the quality of dancing during this portion of the evening.
But you can bet your sweet bippy that in every damn picture I’ll be biting my lip.
Are you doing a first dance? Are you dancing at all? Talk to me.
* Read: Alcohol.
** Yeah, I’ve stopped trying to figure out that one out, too.
*** Read: Mine.
**** Uh, whut?