"Any day now," my hair stylist said. "The perm has been out for a long time. But it's coming back. Everything comes back eventually."
Except, I fervently hope, the feathered bangs of the 80s, the fashion-challenged decade in so many ways. I myself subscribed to the feathered bang look for several years. And that is all that ever needs to be said about it.
"I would LOVE for the perm to come back," a friend said when I told her my stylist's prognostications. "My hair needs all the body it can get."
So had I also thought, very long ago. On the scale of hair "body," my natural hair rated -57, slightly above jellyfish. So a perm that could boost me up to, say, 1? Bring it on.
Had the procedure come with an instruction manual, with a title such as "What to do with your hair after alien hair has invaded," there may have been a chance for it to look normal. But with no understanding of poofy, curly, enormous hair -- and wasn't that what we thought we wanted when we got a perm? -- I resembled some sort of poodle hybrid that hadn't yet been created. A poodle that was disinclined to be tamed, and demanded servitude.
When my enslavement to the perm finally ended, my hair landed in the clutches of yet another exacting master: the curling iron. Eventually it convinced me I was nothing without its waves, its curls, its body-giving properties. I was chained. Whither I went, it went.
The day I threw off that yoke was a day to celebrate. So when my stylist suggested recently that I could rid myself of a pesky backwards curl on the ends of my hair with a flat iron, the apostle Paul's wise words flashed in my mind: "Be not entangled again with the yoke of the curling -- or flat -- iron."
So while I may be safe from that particular trap, I HAVE become entangled again with the yoke of the Velcro rollers, another contraption I had given up but had neglected to purge from my possession, setting the stage for its re-entanglement in my hair's affairs. In the midst of this bondage, I yearn to be free once more.
I am waiting now for my stylist to say that fine, thin, straight hair, with bangs, is in. Limp hair. Jellyfish hair. Hair with absolutely NO body. And THAT will truly be a day of freedom.
Monday, September 29, 2014
Thursday, September 25, 2014
Music Fest
The Hero recently suggested we attend the Music Fest in our town. He wasn't sure exactly what it would feature, but made a wild guess that there would be some bands. With this assurance we walked into town, where we discovered that the music fest consisted largely of several unsigned bands that had either 1) lost their hearing entirely or 2) believed that their audience members were no longer in possession of THEIR hearing, or possibly 3) felt strongly that residents within 70 miles should be able to hear the music without having to leave their homes.
In addition to a single volume level, the bands appeared fond of one particular tempo: "frenzy," which literally means "to perform an activity until one's hair falls out." They played at frenzy level continually, stopping only to try to retrieve some of those hairs in between songs.
We did get a bit of a break occasionally in the form of bands consisting entirely of kids. They were like a miniature replica of the adult bands. Their stage was little. Their instruments were little. And they were little. The sound they produced could not quite be called little, but they seemed concerned only about reaching residents within five miles rather than 70.
So the official schedule that was posted looked something like this:
3:45 Band Playing Very Loud Music
4:20 Youth Band with Very Short Musicians
4:45 Another Band Playing Very Loud Music
5:20 Another youth Band with Very Short Musicians
5:45 Band Playing...Yes, Very Loud Music
Yet a third Youth Band with Very Short Musicians was, sadly, canceled due to the lead singer being "home puking his guts out," according to the manager.
Our own schedule was slightly different:
3:42 Arrive and stand in line for beverages
4:06 Sip beverages and look for anyone we know
4:14 Talk about people we don't know
4:39 Make adoring comments about cute puppies and toddlers
4:57 Make disparaging comments about owners of dogs in tutus
5:11 Study oddly dressed vendor
5:18 Stand in line for more beverages
5:36 Stand in line for food
5:59 Determine that oddly dressed vendor is an Ewok
6:04 Watch young woman dance to music with Hula Hoop
6:17 Glimpse a Dalmatian wearing sunglasses
6:18 Determine not to stand in line for any more beverages
Though we came away with possibly fewer hearing cells intact, we decided it was worth it. There is talk of this being an annual event, and we have already decided what they should feature next year. We want to see the sunglasses-wearing Dalmatian play bass guitar, with all proceeds going to a fund for emotional support for canine tutu wearers.
In addition to a single volume level, the bands appeared fond of one particular tempo: "frenzy," which literally means "to perform an activity until one's hair falls out." They played at frenzy level continually, stopping only to try to retrieve some of those hairs in between songs.
We did get a bit of a break occasionally in the form of bands consisting entirely of kids. They were like a miniature replica of the adult bands. Their stage was little. Their instruments were little. And they were little. The sound they produced could not quite be called little, but they seemed concerned only about reaching residents within five miles rather than 70.
So the official schedule that was posted looked something like this:
3:45 Band Playing Very Loud Music
4:20 Youth Band with Very Short Musicians
4:45 Another Band Playing Very Loud Music
5:20 Another youth Band with Very Short Musicians
5:45 Band Playing...Yes, Very Loud Music
Yet a third Youth Band with Very Short Musicians was, sadly, canceled due to the lead singer being "home puking his guts out," according to the manager.
Our own schedule was slightly different:
3:42 Arrive and stand in line for beverages
4:06 Sip beverages and look for anyone we know
4:14 Talk about people we don't know
4:39 Make adoring comments about cute puppies and toddlers
4:57 Make disparaging comments about owners of dogs in tutus
5:11 Study oddly dressed vendor
5:18 Stand in line for more beverages
5:36 Stand in line for food
5:59 Determine that oddly dressed vendor is an Ewok
6:04 Watch young woman dance to music with Hula Hoop
6:17 Glimpse a Dalmatian wearing sunglasses
6:18 Determine not to stand in line for any more beverages
Though we came away with possibly fewer hearing cells intact, we decided it was worth it. There is talk of this being an annual event, and we have already decided what they should feature next year. We want to see the sunglasses-wearing Dalmatian play bass guitar, with all proceeds going to a fund for emotional support for canine tutu wearers.
Thursday, September 18, 2014
A career in children's magazines?
The other day in the mail we received a packet of items designed to entice us to subscribe to one of my favorite childhood magazines. It is an interesting development in the solicitations we receive. When we were first married, we received a great deal of advertisements for local nursing home services. Perhaps having finally realized we are not in need of eldercare services quite yet, advertisers have decided to explore whether we are at the other end of the continuum, raising small children.
The Hero, not being familiar with this particular periodical -- his childhood interest in reading ran more to the likes of comic books -- asked what I recalled about the magazine from my early days. Two things, I said: Hidden Pictures, and Goofus and Gallant.
The Hidden Pictures feature was just what the name suggests -- pictures of items hidden in a picture that you searched for and, when located, circled with a bright red crayon so as to ruin the search for future readers. Since at the time no one else in my house was under the age of 15, this did not cause much of a problem. But it was extremely annoying when one picked up a crayoned copy at the doctor's or dentist's office.
But Goofus and Gallant was far more compelling, because it was Very Moral. The boys were characters in a strip, and in any given situation Gallant would undoubtedly embark on the right, polite, or otherwise socially accepted course of action, while Goofus never failed to cause gasps of moral outrage with his rude behavior.
It was very satisfying to despise Goofus. Unless one tended to BE like Goofus; then it was very satisfying to despise Gallant.
It is unclear from the advertisement whether Goofus and Gallant remain part of the magazine. But it is unlikely, as Goofus probably long ago sued the magazine for misrepresentation and emotional damages. Clearly, with his background he would have had a difficult time building a successful career as an adult; what employer would have trusted him? Even CEO Gallant (because you just knew Gallant would grow up to be CEO of something someday) would hardly have hired him given their shared history.
"Goofus, Goofus," Gallant would say, shaking his head, "you KNOW you never follow through on anything." And it was true. In the strip, Goofus's mother could ask him a hundred times to put away his socks, but he never did. Could such an individual be relied upon to keep expenses within budget and turn in a coherent annual report?
Another change is that the single magazine is now three magazines, one for babies and toddlers, one for preschoolers and primary age, and one for older school-age kids. According to rumors, the company is also considering targeting other groups, including prenatal babies and perhaps pets.
Strangely, this packet of materials was addressed to the Hero, not me. He denies any knowledge of how he may have appeared on their mailing list. But even though he was not privileged to glean from its and wisdom in his younger days, he saw the potential in it immediately -- particularly for babies, who are generally a hard sell when it comes to magazines.*
For example, the letter in the packet reprinted a poem from one issue of the baby and toddler magazine that went something like this:
I cuddle like a bug
As I share a warm hug
In the big soft chair.
Later in the day
My friends and I will play
In the big soft chair.
The Hero, getting into the rhythm of the poem, added his own verse:
Then as bedtime draws near
I'll have a nice cold beer,
And fall asleep in the big soft chair.**
It seems safe to say that his future career at a children's magazine might be over before it starts.
Yet his ideas were not exhausted with the poetry. Moving on to articles that might be helpful to babies, he came up with the following title possibilities:
"How's that cry working out for you? Need to jazz it up? 5 steps to more effective crying (counting ability not necessary)"
"No one paying attention to you? How to poop to greater effect"
"You found your mouth...what's next? Body parts for beginners"
On second thought, there is an audience for almost everything. The Hero may very well find his, perhaps among new fathers short on sleep.
____________
* This is due to their short attention span, which makes it difficult for them to listen to advertising pitches. And the fact that they haven't quite mastered paying by credit card yet. But the iPhone 6 may change this latter shortcoming.
** The Hero does not necessarily advocate engaging in this behavior, particularly at the tender age of 1.
The Hero, not being familiar with this particular periodical -- his childhood interest in reading ran more to the likes of comic books -- asked what I recalled about the magazine from my early days. Two things, I said: Hidden Pictures, and Goofus and Gallant.
The Hidden Pictures feature was just what the name suggests -- pictures of items hidden in a picture that you searched for and, when located, circled with a bright red crayon so as to ruin the search for future readers. Since at the time no one else in my house was under the age of 15, this did not cause much of a problem. But it was extremely annoying when one picked up a crayoned copy at the doctor's or dentist's office.
But Goofus and Gallant was far more compelling, because it was Very Moral. The boys were characters in a strip, and in any given situation Gallant would undoubtedly embark on the right, polite, or otherwise socially accepted course of action, while Goofus never failed to cause gasps of moral outrage with his rude behavior.
It was very satisfying to despise Goofus. Unless one tended to BE like Goofus; then it was very satisfying to despise Gallant.
It is unclear from the advertisement whether Goofus and Gallant remain part of the magazine. But it is unlikely, as Goofus probably long ago sued the magazine for misrepresentation and emotional damages. Clearly, with his background he would have had a difficult time building a successful career as an adult; what employer would have trusted him? Even CEO Gallant (because you just knew Gallant would grow up to be CEO of something someday) would hardly have hired him given their shared history.
"Goofus, Goofus," Gallant would say, shaking his head, "you KNOW you never follow through on anything." And it was true. In the strip, Goofus's mother could ask him a hundred times to put away his socks, but he never did. Could such an individual be relied upon to keep expenses within budget and turn in a coherent annual report?
Another change is that the single magazine is now three magazines, one for babies and toddlers, one for preschoolers and primary age, and one for older school-age kids. According to rumors, the company is also considering targeting other groups, including prenatal babies and perhaps pets.
Strangely, this packet of materials was addressed to the Hero, not me. He denies any knowledge of how he may have appeared on their mailing list. But even though he was not privileged to glean from its and wisdom in his younger days, he saw the potential in it immediately -- particularly for babies, who are generally a hard sell when it comes to magazines.*
For example, the letter in the packet reprinted a poem from one issue of the baby and toddler magazine that went something like this:
I cuddle like a bug
As I share a warm hug
In the big soft chair.
Later in the day
My friends and I will play
In the big soft chair.
The Hero, getting into the rhythm of the poem, added his own verse:
Then as bedtime draws near
I'll have a nice cold beer,
And fall asleep in the big soft chair.**
It seems safe to say that his future career at a children's magazine might be over before it starts.
Yet his ideas were not exhausted with the poetry. Moving on to articles that might be helpful to babies, he came up with the following title possibilities:
"How's that cry working out for you? Need to jazz it up? 5 steps to more effective crying (counting ability not necessary)"
"No one paying attention to you? How to poop to greater effect"
"You found your mouth...what's next? Body parts for beginners"
On second thought, there is an audience for almost everything. The Hero may very well find his, perhaps among new fathers short on sleep.
____________
* This is due to their short attention span, which makes it difficult for them to listen to advertising pitches. And the fact that they haven't quite mastered paying by credit card yet. But the iPhone 6 may change this latter shortcoming.
** The Hero does not necessarily advocate engaging in this behavior, particularly at the tender age of 1.
Monday, September 15, 2014
Where there's fire, there's creme brulee
I'm sure that of all the statements the Hero ever expected might emerge from my mouth, "Honey, I need a blowtorch" is not one of them.
And yet a blowtorch is crucial to my culinary happiness. Just as the immersion blender enabled me to make luxurious cream soups, and the salad spinner ensured that we would actually eat all those crisp, healthy greens we are supplied with, so now, from the glossy pages of a cookbook, a creme brûlée calls out to me that I, too, can enjoy its magical goodness -- IF I have a blowtorch.
To become creme brûlée (which literally means burnt cream, but for obvious reasons is called creme brûlée), the dish of cream, sugar, more eggs and sugar, sugar, vanilla or other flavoring, and unbelievable amounts of eggs and sugar, plus a little extra for good measure, must be set aflame, on purpose.
Enter the blowtorch. When applied to the top of the creation, it creates a chemical reaction that results, eventually, in the fire department coming to your home.
This suggests a modification alarm companies might make to their equipment. A special alert indicating "creme brûlée fire!" would let authorities know that there is no actual fire and thus no need for them to show up with hose trucks or any other kind of trucks. Upon hearing this special signal, the firefighters would say something like:
"Oh, it's just the Johnsons making creme brûlée again. What's that make, the third time this month?"
"Hey, maybe they DO need some help -- eating all of it."
And they would go back to playing cards.
Of course there is an alternative way to achieve the crunchy, sweet goodness on top of the creme brûlée: put it under the broiler. But this is for wussies, even if the directions DO say to be careful. All the danger, all the excitement is happening INSIDE the oven, where I can't be a part of it. And I WANT to be a part of it. With a blowtorch, I alone would be responsible for causing whatever chemical reactions are occurring. Of course, I would also be responsible for any damage to the kitchen or my person, which might be considerable.
It is this latter point that gives the Hero pause when I mention my need for a blowtorch. And it is no doubt what will convince firefighters that even if the special "don't-worry-it's-just-a-
And yet a blowtorch is crucial to my culinary happiness. Just as the immersion blender enabled me to make luxurious cream soups, and the salad spinner ensured that we would actually eat all those crisp, healthy greens we are supplied with, so now, from the glossy pages of a cookbook, a creme brûlée calls out to me that I, too, can enjoy its magical goodness -- IF I have a blowtorch.
To become creme brûlée (which literally means burnt cream, but for obvious reasons is called creme brûlée), the dish of cream, sugar, more eggs and sugar, sugar, vanilla or other flavoring, and unbelievable amounts of eggs and sugar, plus a little extra for good measure, must be set aflame, on purpose.
Enter the blowtorch. When applied to the top of the creation, it creates a chemical reaction that results, eventually, in the fire department coming to your home.
This suggests a modification alarm companies might make to their equipment. A special alert indicating "creme brûlée fire!" would let authorities know that there is no actual fire and thus no need for them to show up with hose trucks or any other kind of trucks. Upon hearing this special signal, the firefighters would say something like:
"Oh, it's just the Johnsons making creme brûlée again. What's that make, the third time this month?"
"Hey, maybe they DO need some help -- eating all of it."
And they would go back to playing cards.
Of course there is an alternative way to achieve the crunchy, sweet goodness on top of the creme brûlée: put it under the broiler. But this is for wussies, even if the directions DO say to be careful. All the danger, all the excitement is happening INSIDE the oven, where I can't be a part of it. And I WANT to be a part of it. With a blowtorch, I alone would be responsible for causing whatever chemical reactions are occurring. Of course, I would also be responsible for any damage to the kitchen or my person, which might be considerable.
It is this latter point that gives the Hero pause when I mention my need for a blowtorch. And it is no doubt what will convince firefighters that even if the special "don't-worry-it's-just-a-
Monday, September 8, 2014
Five degrees of separation from the beach
A friend once declared that "there are five minutes in the life of a banana when it is suitable to be eaten." Likewise, I feel there is a five-degree range of temperature for which the beach is enjoyable. This is about 85-90 degrees. Below this threshold, it is, in my opinion, too chilly to enter the ocean waters. Above this range, the heat is so debilitating that one must summon all of one's resources simply to move off one's comfortable chaise lounge, drag one's parched and dehydrated body across the burning sands, and finally plop at the edge of the refreshing water, only to forget to close one's mouth before getting a mouthful of seawater.
Unfortunately the temperature on our recent beach visit fell well short of this acceptable range. The Hero, who feels that any weather short of visible icicles is suitable for ocean dipping -- and who also has NO discernible standards when it comes to banana eating -- went in without me.
But the weather was conducive to napping and also to bike riding, so we happily engaged in both activities, although not both at the same time. Bikes can be rather a difficult place to nap.
A prominent sign on the boardwalk declared that although bikes were permitted, this was true only until 10 a.m. After that, presumably, large, hairy individuals would materialize and bodily escort you and your bike -- separating one from the other if necessary -- off the boardwalk.
We did not want this to happen, so we behaved ourselves. Well, at least in regard to the magic hour of 10:00. I admit that at one point we attempted a rather daring move, in which I steered my bike with just one hand while handing over my hat to the Hero to place in his basket. This was daring because even two-handed, my bike-steering skills are roughly akin to those exhibited by small marsupials, were they to take up bike riding.
I would have pulled it off, though, had my bike not chosen that exact moment to show its affinity for the Hero's bike. We clanged into each other, and only quick-witted thinking on the Hero's part -- consisting of him thrusting me and my bike away -- saved us from complete disaster.
Under the sign on the boardwalk that said "Bikes permitted until 10 a.m.," we would not have been surprised to see another sign affixed to it declaring, "Except YOU TWO. You know who you are." And, yes, we would have known.
It also would not have been a surprise to see a large, hairy individual arrive to cast us off the boardwalk -- after he finished eating a very brown, way-beyond-the-five-minute-
Unfortunately the temperature on our recent beach visit fell well short of this acceptable range. The Hero, who feels that any weather short of visible icicles is suitable for ocean dipping -- and who also has NO discernible standards when it comes to banana eating -- went in without me.
But the weather was conducive to napping and also to bike riding, so we happily engaged in both activities, although not both at the same time. Bikes can be rather a difficult place to nap.
A prominent sign on the boardwalk declared that although bikes were permitted, this was true only until 10 a.m. After that, presumably, large, hairy individuals would materialize and bodily escort you and your bike -- separating one from the other if necessary -- off the boardwalk.
We did not want this to happen, so we behaved ourselves. Well, at least in regard to the magic hour of 10:00. I admit that at one point we attempted a rather daring move, in which I steered my bike with just one hand while handing over my hat to the Hero to place in his basket. This was daring because even two-handed, my bike-steering skills are roughly akin to those exhibited by small marsupials, were they to take up bike riding.
I would have pulled it off, though, had my bike not chosen that exact moment to show its affinity for the Hero's bike. We clanged into each other, and only quick-witted thinking on the Hero's part -- consisting of him thrusting me and my bike away -- saved us from complete disaster.
Under the sign on the boardwalk that said "Bikes permitted until 10 a.m.," we would not have been surprised to see another sign affixed to it declaring, "Except YOU TWO. You know who you are." And, yes, we would have known.
It also would not have been a surprise to see a large, hairy individual arrive to cast us off the boardwalk -- after he finished eating a very brown, way-beyond-the-five-minute-
Tuesday, September 2, 2014
May I please have this faux pas?
Ever since the Hero and I took ballroom dancing lessons a few years ago, he has been on the lookout for both place and opportunity to practice our budding skills. By "practice" I mean "expose our ineptitude to the world."
We took these lessons thanks to Groupon, which is a service that, by offering deeply discounted coupons to gazillions of people, emboldens those people to do inadvisable things like take dance lessons even when their talent for dancing is less than zero.
The great thing about Groupon, though, is that even if you have a terrible experience at whatever you're using the coupon for, at least you didn't pay full price. So perhaps you got food poisoning at a restaurant or broke your leg skeet shooting, but hey, it could have cost a lot more.
The dance lessons, however, turned out to be a very nice experience. We actually learned several things about dancing, most of which I promptly forgot, but we did remember the most important thing: Once our lessons ended, we should never, ever try dancing in public again.
At least, that is what I remember from the experience. But the Hero has insisted, ever since, that we should keep up our skills, and that it would be fun to go somewhere on a special occasion and kick up our heels. And try not to cause anyone bodily harm.
A fine opportunity to embarrass ourselves came on our recent trip to the beach, where we ate lunch across the street from the town's Convention Hall one day. A sign above the door flashed all the upcoming events, like "Off-Season Subpar Band I, Off-Season Subpar Band II," etc. The Hero, studying the messages intently (possibly hoping to see the screen flash "Musician needed immediately to fill in on keyboards for Aug. 30. Prefer Maryland male, 40s, who is also a whiz computer guy"), suddenly said, "Hey, they have ballroom dancing! Tonight!"
I was pretty sure I was going to be unwell that night, and said so, but the Hero was resolute.
"I'm sure there'll be a dress code," I said.
"Let's go over and check it out," he said.
We did, and asked the woman behind the counter if there was a dress code for the dancing. She assured us there was not. Was she deliberately ignoring the vigorous nodding of my head as I stood behind the Hero? It was hard to tell.
We came back promptly at 9:00 that night, and promptly panicked. Well, the Hero panicked. I had been practicing panicking since the moment we'd -- he'd -- decided to come, so I was in good shape as far as panicking.
Everyone else knew each other. They chatted about how this was the last session of the summer. They had all been doing this, together, the whole summer.
When the first dance began, neither of us moved, even though it was a foxtrot, a dance we know. The second dance was also a foxtrot, and still we sat unmoving.
But when the third dance was imminent, the Hero reached over to pry me from my death grip on the chair. And then the DJ announced that this would be a salsa.
We looked at each other, stunned. We didn't know the salsa. In fact, thanks to the limits of the Groupon we had used, we knew only two dances.* Had we really thought there would be only foxtrots and waltzes all evening?**
We sat out the next dance, too, which was a swing. I began to relax. Maybe we'll just sit here and watch all night, I thought.
But finally a waltz came, and away we went. While the other couples swirled around the room, we stayed in our neat little box, as we had been taught. Occasionally we switched it up to the point where we traveled a foot or two and made another little box. Up and down the left side of the room, we established a series of little boxes and waltzed them to death.
The band seemed to catch on that we didn't know much beyond the waltz, and they -- quick-thinking as they were -- played several other dances after that, none of which we knew Then a foxtrot came, and we were on our feet again, ready to take this song by storm.
Except that we couldn't quite sort out the foxtrot steps from the waltz steps, and settled for something we shall call the waltztrot. It resembled those scenes in comic films where two people politely try to get around each other but keep trying to occupy the same space at the same time. We even tried -- though this was not on purpose -- to occupy the same space as some of the other couples. This effort was not successful.
Thankfully, modern technology came to our rescue. The band mercifully took a break, and the Hero and I frantically Googled "foxtrot steps for Dummies." There we learned that we had been forgetting that the steps are "slow, slow, quick, quick, slow, slow, quick, quick," etc.
Our memories refreshed, we tried again when the next foxtrot was played -- the band must have forgotten during the break that this was one we would attempt -- but kept missing one particular step. Instead of "slow, slow, quick, quick," our sequence was more "slow, slow, oof, ouch, slow, slow..."
"Your right foot has to move back, not forward," I said. Unfortunately I said this while looking down, and the Hero responded by looking down, and to accompany our dance steps we added "BONK, ow!" mid-sequence.
We never did make it to the other side of the room, although once we flirted dangerously with the middle. We gradually noticed, however, that there were only a few couples on the floor, leaving us rather conspicuously out in the open, whereupon we hastily waltztrotted back to the safety of our original box.
No one spoke to us for most of the evening, for which we could not blame them. We probably wouldn't have either if we hadn't been us. One couple did come to sit at our table toward the end of the evening. "They probably drew the short straw," I whispered to the Hero as we saw them approach. "Everyone must have drawn straws to see who would be the unlucky ones to come over and see why we thought it was a good idea to come here tonight."
Eventually the misery ended -- here I am speaking of the misery everyone else endured while watching us -- and we left hurriedly.
And, fortunately, managed not to trip down the stairs on our way out.
___________
*Actually, as we would discover later in the evening, we were wrong about this. We knew only ONE dance.
**Yes, apparently we had.
We took these lessons thanks to Groupon, which is a service that, by offering deeply discounted coupons to gazillions of people, emboldens those people to do inadvisable things like take dance lessons even when their talent for dancing is less than zero.
The great thing about Groupon, though, is that even if you have a terrible experience at whatever you're using the coupon for, at least you didn't pay full price. So perhaps you got food poisoning at a restaurant or broke your leg skeet shooting, but hey, it could have cost a lot more.
The dance lessons, however, turned out to be a very nice experience. We actually learned several things about dancing, most of which I promptly forgot, but we did remember the most important thing: Once our lessons ended, we should never, ever try dancing in public again.
At least, that is what I remember from the experience. But the Hero has insisted, ever since, that we should keep up our skills, and that it would be fun to go somewhere on a special occasion and kick up our heels. And try not to cause anyone bodily harm.
A fine opportunity to embarrass ourselves came on our recent trip to the beach, where we ate lunch across the street from the town's Convention Hall one day. A sign above the door flashed all the upcoming events, like "Off-Season Subpar Band I, Off-Season Subpar Band II," etc. The Hero, studying the messages intently (possibly hoping to see the screen flash "Musician needed immediately to fill in on keyboards for Aug. 30. Prefer Maryland male, 40s, who is also a whiz computer guy"), suddenly said, "Hey, they have ballroom dancing! Tonight!"
I was pretty sure I was going to be unwell that night, and said so, but the Hero was resolute.
"I'm sure there'll be a dress code," I said.
"Let's go over and check it out," he said.
We did, and asked the woman behind the counter if there was a dress code for the dancing. She assured us there was not. Was she deliberately ignoring the vigorous nodding of my head as I stood behind the Hero? It was hard to tell.
We came back promptly at 9:00 that night, and promptly panicked. Well, the Hero panicked. I had been practicing panicking since the moment we'd -- he'd -- decided to come, so I was in good shape as far as panicking.
Everyone else knew each other. They chatted about how this was the last session of the summer. They had all been doing this, together, the whole summer.
When the first dance began, neither of us moved, even though it was a foxtrot, a dance we know. The second dance was also a foxtrot, and still we sat unmoving.
But when the third dance was imminent, the Hero reached over to pry me from my death grip on the chair. And then the DJ announced that this would be a salsa.
We looked at each other, stunned. We didn't know the salsa. In fact, thanks to the limits of the Groupon we had used, we knew only two dances.* Had we really thought there would be only foxtrots and waltzes all evening?**
We sat out the next dance, too, which was a swing. I began to relax. Maybe we'll just sit here and watch all night, I thought.
But finally a waltz came, and away we went. While the other couples swirled around the room, we stayed in our neat little box, as we had been taught. Occasionally we switched it up to the point where we traveled a foot or two and made another little box. Up and down the left side of the room, we established a series of little boxes and waltzed them to death.
The band seemed to catch on that we didn't know much beyond the waltz, and they -- quick-thinking as they were -- played several other dances after that, none of which we knew Then a foxtrot came, and we were on our feet again, ready to take this song by storm.
Except that we couldn't quite sort out the foxtrot steps from the waltz steps, and settled for something we shall call the waltztrot. It resembled those scenes in comic films where two people politely try to get around each other but keep trying to occupy the same space at the same time. We even tried -- though this was not on purpose -- to occupy the same space as some of the other couples. This effort was not successful.
Thankfully, modern technology came to our rescue. The band mercifully took a break, and the Hero and I frantically Googled "foxtrot steps for Dummies." There we learned that we had been forgetting that the steps are "slow, slow, quick, quick, slow, slow, quick, quick," etc.
Our memories refreshed, we tried again when the next foxtrot was played -- the band must have forgotten during the break that this was one we would attempt -- but kept missing one particular step. Instead of "slow, slow, quick, quick," our sequence was more "slow, slow, oof, ouch, slow, slow..."
"Your right foot has to move back, not forward," I said. Unfortunately I said this while looking down, and the Hero responded by looking down, and to accompany our dance steps we added "BONK, ow!" mid-sequence.
We never did make it to the other side of the room, although once we flirted dangerously with the middle. We gradually noticed, however, that there were only a few couples on the floor, leaving us rather conspicuously out in the open, whereupon we hastily waltztrotted back to the safety of our original box.
No one spoke to us for most of the evening, for which we could not blame them. We probably wouldn't have either if we hadn't been us. One couple did come to sit at our table toward the end of the evening. "They probably drew the short straw," I whispered to the Hero as we saw them approach. "Everyone must have drawn straws to see who would be the unlucky ones to come over and see why we thought it was a good idea to come here tonight."
Eventually the misery ended -- here I am speaking of the misery everyone else endured while watching us -- and we left hurriedly.
And, fortunately, managed not to trip down the stairs on our way out.
___________
*Actually, as we would discover later in the evening, we were wrong about this. We knew only ONE dance.
**Yes, apparently we had.
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