October 15, 2012
My “little sister” got married yesterday. In case you’re confused, no I don’t have any sisters. You didn’t forget about them. But I do have a best friend who, even though I hardly see her anymore, I still call my best friend because we’ve known each other since we were five and were joined at the hip for so many years thereafter that the best friendship kind of got set in stone. (I’m also of the belief that you can have multiple best friends even though the word best implies there can only be one. This is my best-friend-from-forever, not to be confused with my best-friend-from-college or best-friend-I-met-as-an-adult.) And my best friend from forever, Betsy, has a little sister, Kat, and Kat is, therefore, my little sister, too. Betsy and I used to go to the musicals at her high school (we were in different school districts). When we went off to college, our spring breaks were at different times. Mine happened to always coincide with that high school’s musical, so I would take Kat to the show. Kat is the one who got married yesterday. She is very vintage. She loves the ’30s and ’40s. It was only natural that a jazz band play the reception.
Now, the reason Betsy and I got to be such good friends is that we were in ballet together. We’re dancers. I was thrilled at the prospect of such good dance music at the wedding. One little problem. I don’t have a dance partner. And I didn’t want to ask just anyone because I wasn’t sure if I was going to be pregnant yet or not. And if I was, I didn’t want to explain to my date why I didn’t want a glass of champagne. There is one person I would have asked in a heartbeat if I knew he’d be available. I really wanted to take my husband with me. The problem? He lives in New York with his boyfriend. And, actually, he’s not even in New York right now. He’s on tour in Bunnicula.
Okay, he’s not really my husband. We played opposite each other in Seven Brides for Seven Brothers. Ever since, he’s called me “wife”. Literally. He doesn’t say, “Hi Beth!” when he sees me. Instead he says, “It’s my wife!” And I respond with the appropriate, “It’s my husband!” All joking aside, he is probably the best dance partner I have ever had. The choreographer told all of us to come up with a waltz bit at the end of the show. The first rehearsal we worked that part, Prescott said, “Follow me” and I did. And that’s what we did every night after that. He led, and I trusted him and followed. And until years later when I mentioned this to her, the choreographer had NO IDEA. She thought we had choreographed something. Nope. We freestyled it every night.
So, naturally, the first person I thought of when trying to come up with a dance partner for Kat’s wedding was Prescott. And I did post to him on Facebook that I wished he still lived in Kalamazoo so that he could dance at this wedding with me. It was wistful, but it was never meant to be anything more. I never did come up with a date.
But that’s okay. Early on at the reception, I met the rabbi’s son. He said he danced. I said I’d see him on the floor. I’m not sure exactly what his definition of “dance” is, but it wasn’t quite the same as mine. He did an okay wedding shuffle. (I was trying to expand that into a fox trot, but no dice. Fox trot is not my strongest ballroom step anyway.) I did teach him how to swing. I think I wore him out pretty quickly.
And then I danced with this adorable three-year-old. (At least, that’s how old I think he was. I don’t think he was much older than three.) We had a pretty good groove going. He was mirroring my arm movements. We were doing some go-go inspired moves. And then he stepped around and peered behind me. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, a three-year-old checked out my bum. His dad was standing alongside the dance floor, and both of us just about fell over we started laughing so hard. I really shouldn’t encourage such objectifying behavior, but it’s pretty funny when a three-year-old checks you out. (And in his defense, maybe he was just trying to figure out how I was moving so that he could do it, too. It was clear that this little boy loves to dance. His parents had a hard time getting him to leave the dance floor when it was time to go home.)
And, of course, I danced with my daddy. We swung our hearts out to Sing Sing Sing. My mom was happy to let me have that dance with him. It was long and it was fast and my dad has gotten really good at leading a swing. I’m not his usual dance partner, and I could tell which way to turn.
So, Prescott, I did miss dancing with you, but it’s okay. I got hit on by a three-year-old, and it made my night!