I can't dance. The last time I did any formal dancing was at my sister's wedding almost twenty years ago.
Luckily, I drank a whole bottle of champagne and made out with the photographer who looked like Tom Selleck, before my friends found me and dragged me onto the dance floor. I don't remember that dance but somewhere there is an old video tape of my sister trying to hold me up and I'm stepping on her wedding dress as her college friends laughed and my relatives gave me disapproving looks.
Since then, I vowed I'd never dance again. Until a friend of mine got married a couple of years ago. I wasn't part of the wedding party--he knows I'm not much into volunteering--but I knew at some point there'd be dancing involved. Again, alcohol played a part but this time it wasn't me who was drunk.
It was the wedding party. Or rather a member of the wedding who couldn't hold her liquor. Once the music began, a Korean DJ was brought in especially for the wedding, everyone massed onto the dance floor and started dancing.
It was a weird sort of dance: a cross between disco and rap and funk. I was squashed between my friend's fat cousin, Reena, who was maid of honor and her husband, Josh, who was skinny as a Q-tip and his claim to fame was that he almost ran over Cher in West Hollywood. But I found out later she was an impersonator, though Josh believes he almost killed her.
The real Cher not the fake one.
I kept bumping into Reena rather large bottom which I think now Josh purposely pushed me into it each time. I was dancing with my then boyfriend whose name I will never utter! He was drunk along with Reena and Josh.
As most people know, drunks can't dance. Or if they try to, eventually something spews out and the smell is not pretty. All that bumping and grinding was taking its toll on Reena's stomach and she turned around and grabbed my shoulder.
She was sweating; her eyes were crossed.
One look on her face and I knew she'd hurl.
I was right.
Unfortunately, she barfed onto my pants specifically around my crotch. My boyfriend screamed, Josh pulled Reena off me, and I spent the night at the Hilton washing the smell of fried shrimp, wine, other kinds of alcohol and vomit off my clothes and body as my passed out boyfriend lay on the bed with his hands down his underwear.
I've been invited to another wedding up in Glendale at the end of this summer. The son of a old college friend is finally getting married.
I'm not missing the wedding.
I remember when his son was a toddler and had the biggest head in preschool. The weight of it prevented him from walking upright until the age of six.
But I think this time I'm going to pass on the dancing.
Where's Tom Selleck when you need him?