Dance Fever

There are a number of things that come up during the course of planning a wedding that lead you to do and say things you might never do or say under normal circumstances.  For instance, I never thought I'd hear my fiance, T, say the words, "Absolutely not. I hate that FONT." Nor did I ever think I would be letting a strange woman stuff my bra (while telling me just how small my chest is) in front of my mother and my niece.  And not since the day that, as a chubby six year old, I ripped off my sequin-embellished top hat, threw that hot pink feather boa on the floor and stomped off the stage before the curtain even opened, did I think I would be taking dance lessons ever again. However, this is the nature of the year that leads up to the biggest day of your life.

Some time ago T and I took on the arduous task of picking out what would be our first dance song.  As two music lovers, this was no easy undertaking, but after hours of arguing in front of iTunes, we settled upon the perfect song.  A song that has meaning to both of us, that speaks to our relationship and will probably be forgotten by everyone who attends our wedding while we're still on our honeymoon.  After listening to it a few times, we gave each other a look that said, "Sure we can dance to this, let's give it a try."  Shoving the coffee table out of the way and turning up the speakers we took our first spin around the apartment.

For the first few measures we kind of stood there, stared at each other and we each did a little Oompa Loompa knee bend.  Watching T carefully, since he is the better dancer, I tried unsuccessfully to emulate the up and down bop to the beat.  Without saying a word we knew it was time to try and come together and dance like a real couple.  Over the next minute I basically let T swing me around the 4' x 4' space we had cleared in the apartment, trying desperately to move my feet in any sort of way that made sense.  When the song really picked up he spun me around and I did my best not to fall.  Then, subconsciously we both retreated to our old standby dance moves.  Mine consists of me throwing my hands straight up in the air and swinging my head back and forth to give whoever's watching a glimpse of how shiny and long it is.  T usually begins his snapping his fingers and doing his sexy-back hip swing which looks so good that it draws the attention away from my signature head flail and manages to make me look half decent since I'm dancing with him.  By this point I was really excited, so I backed up for a running start, went full steam ahead and yelled, "Dirty Dancing Lift!".  T did his best to stop me from taking both of us down as I jumped into his arms, then he settled me back onto solid ground, rubbed his back and said, "Dance Lessons."

So when we hit the milestone mark of one month until the big day, we decided it was time to call up Manhattan's premier wedding dance studio and clean up the Oompa-Loompa-Hair-Flail-Hip-Swing-Try-Not-To-Get-Break-A-Leg-Lift combination we had pieced together.  By the time the clock struck six we were safely inside the dance studio with our instructor, A.  A is about my size, maybe a year or two older than us and lightyears more poised than either of us will ever hope to be.  She put on our song, grabbed one of my hands, placed her other hand firmly around my waist, and threw me around the floor while I laughed, stumbled and said, "Oh no. I can not do this."  Next up was T who caught right on and twirled A around like they'd been dancing together for years.  Immediately, my competitive side kicked in and steam was all but pouring out of my ears the minute T chimed in to try and help me find the rhythm of the song.  

I thought about the time T's dad mopped the dance floor with me at his cousin's wedding and about all of the times I've had to grab onto a wall for balance and just shake my butt while out dancing late night.  As these moments flashed through my head, my resolve set in and I put on my serious face.  I watched A's feet, hung onto her every word and repeated over and over in my head, "One Two Quick-Quick, One Two Quick-Quick.  Before I knew it I had the basics down and had almost managed to move my hips.  Almost.  

Over the next five days, whenever T walked in the house, I had him practicing with me before he could even take off his coat.  Thanks to my stay-at-home status I was also able to practice in front of our bedroom mirror every day, making sure to shut the blinds because I would do so in my pre-wedding, stay-at-home uniform which consists of my new satin Prada d'orsay pumps and my new honeymoon bikini.  I like to wear these around the house a) to serve as a reminder to stay away from chocolate/wine/ice cream and b) because I love wearing those effing fabulous shoes and need to break them in for the big day.

After trudging out of the house, sick with a sinus infection and cranky, we arrived at the dance studio last night for lesson # 2 and showed A our stuff.  "You HAVE been practicing!" she exclaimed and that was all the validation I needed.  Now I have just one week to go to manage that new spin move she taught us without tripping over my own feet or getting flung into our wedding cake.  I've let my competitiveness subside and actually listen to T when he offers up his expert advice and I can't tell you how good it felt when he said, "Baby, I actually saw you moving your hips!".  

I now have a new appreciation for dancing with the stars and dreams of one day appearing in a Britney video.  I'm already signing us up for a post-honeymoon dance class and have the unexplainable urge to tell everyone I come across, "I found rhythm."  The truth is, when it's all over and we're back from our honeymoon, fat, happy and having spent two weeks on our asses, I'll probably fall right back into the hair-swing-head-flail and just sit back and let T make me look good.  I'll be happy enough just having the memory and the video tape of the day UnPlain Jane danced like 200 people were watching.

Tits, Ass or Tears

Just a few short months ago, after carelessly leaving my wallet in a cab, I received a call from Commerce Bank letting me know that they had the gentleman who had found my wallet on the other line.  They connected me to the good samaritan and the following Monday morning I met him in front of his office, handed him a bank gift card to thank him and headed on my merry way with my wallet safely back in my hands.  Walking down the street, I carefully cataloged my belongings and to my surprise, they were all in there.  My ID, seven dollars, credit cards, a check for $554 that I had already endorsed and my beloved Sephora Beauty Insider card were each safely in their place.  For the next few weeks I ran around town praising the good nature of my fellow New Yorkers and humanity as a whole.

Cut to Wednesday.  It's exactly one month before our wedding and I'm meeting "T" at Ripley Studios for our first wedding dance lesson.  Having just guzzled a double cappuccino at a meeting half an hour earlier, I immediately headed for the bathroom.  As usual, I was carrying more than I could handle.  My purse, containing our just-picked-up-and-not-yet-insured wedding bands; a tote, containing "the perfect" dance lesson outfit I spent an hour picking out; my giant puffy coat and my most prized possession, my blackberry (aka: my entire life).  After changing and a quick pee, I dragged all of my things over to the sink to wash my hands.  I rested my blackberry on the counter and made sure to keep a careful eye on the purse that was squeezed between my knees because I was filled with fear that if I took my eyes off of it for half a second, it would be gone and, with it, our wedding bands.  Turning my head to grab some paper towels, my eyes left my blackberry for what couldn't have been more than 5 seconds and when I turned back, it was gone.  F-ck Humanity.

In disbelief, I began searching through my bags.  There I was, on all fours on the bathroom floor on the verge of hysterics, shouting into the stalls asking if anyone had seen a blackberry.  After fashioning gloves out of paper towels, I took the cover off of the garbage can and started digging through it, fighting the urge to gag and convinced that I must have dropped it in there or something because people just don't take things like that, do they?  When one of the girls in the bathroom offered to call my phone for me, it went straight to voicemail.  Sh-t, F-ck, Sh-t.  Who would do this?  I went so far as to patiently wait outside one of the stalls while some poor girl tried to stifle a violent "number two" with coughs and courtesy flushes.  I apologized when she was done, but for the love of god, I had to check in there for my Blackberry.  I had no choice.

Still unconvinced that someone would actually steal my blackberry right out from under me, I headed over to the front desk where I was informed that no one had turned anything in.  In tears, I looked up and saw that "T" had arrived.  The first thing out of his mouth was, "I've been trying to call you."  "Someone stole my Blaaaaaackbeeeeeeerrrry!" I whined and before he could offer me any consolation I continued with, "What am I gonna do! My WHOLE ENTIRE LIFE is in there! Who would do something like this?!"   Luckily for "T" our dance lesson was beginning so I had to suck it up and stumble my way through our wedding song, already in a bad mood and now seething because my competitive side can't handle that he's a better dancer than I am.  I continued acting "mature" the whole ride home including tossing out a "You don't understand!" in the cab; stomping away and once again breaking into tears when we arrived at the already-closed T-mobile store; and actually kicking my building before rounding the corner so the doorman wouldn't witness my tantrum.  I ended the rage with a good old fashion wall-punch-throw-my-purse-as-hard-as-I-can-on-the-floor combination the minute we walked in the door.  

As is my usual MO, the next morning I was done with my rant and ready to spring into action.  I gave "T" my standard, post-tantrum apology and thanks, then decided I was going to get a new Blackberry at a discount if it killed me.  Having visiting plenty of T-Mobile stores thanks to a long history of breaking Blackberries, I was familiar with the stereotypical wireless sales worker, so I thought my best bet was to a) shake what my momma gave me and b) bring cash.  Getting ready to go get mine I put on an outfit that was not classy, nor stylish, but perfect for the occasion: The tightest jeans I own and a loooow cut shirt that barely hid the cleavage I had fashioned out of my favorite push up bra and a pair of "chicken cutlet" inserts that I keep in my underwear drawer in a plastic bag labeled "Jane's Boobs".  I topped it off with high boots, the shiniest lip gloss I own and with "T" in agreement, left my engagement ring at home.  On my way to the store, I stopped at the ATM and took out $200 because, just in case my feminine wiles didn't work, I would offer to "pay cash" and "throw in a little extra".

The times they are a changing, because when I walked into my local T-Mobile I was greeted with a plain looking young lady and her manager, a gay man.  I didn't even bother taking off my coat because clearly giving either of them a gander at "the girls" wasn't going to get me anywhere. Time for Plan B. She asked me the usual questions and I informed her that no, I do not have insurance and yes, I just extended my contract two weeks ago so I could get the discount price when my Blackberry broke in Vegas.  She politely informed me that, unfortunately, I was going to have to pay the full $350 price tag for a replacement device. With her manager hovering over, I knew I wasn't going to have the opportunity to invoke Plan B and try to grease her, so I did what came naturally and broke into tears.  Again.  Within five minutes she had me on the phone with T Mobile corporate, where between sniffles I told my sob story to Bob, my friendly customer service representative.  Ten minutes after that I was armed with a new SIM card, a loaner phone and the knowledge that my replacement Blackberry was in the mail for the bargain discount price of $150.  

I thanked Shonda and Miguel profusely, apologized for crying in their store and asked where I could call to sing their praises to the higher ups at T-Mobile.  After walking out the door, I immediately dialed "T" and informed him of the situation.  As usual, after I break down, throw a fit and then spring into action, I try to take whatever just happened and learn something from it. This time around I learned a few things.  First, there are lots of bad people in this world that will take advantage of your mistakes;  Second, even though there are lots of bad people out there, there are definitely more good people than bad; and finally, perhaps the most important lesson of them all, where tits and ass don't work, tears do.  That's one you can take to the bank.