Nothing like this kind of social function to amp up my social anxiety.
Although it's nothing that a few Bombay-Sapphire & Tonics (with 2 limes) won't cure.
I'm thinking it will be a good time.
The thing is.
The thing is...
For our wedding, we had our friend, Jon, give us Swing lessons.
And that is our tradition when we attend weddings. To tear it up Swing dancing.
Truth-be-told the only thing we're tearing up are our hamstrings and back muscles.
But we have fun.
Everyone seems to be delighted & surprised that we do this at the weddings we've attended.
Delighted that we're finally off the dance floor, I'm sure.
And surprised that two people can dance so poorly.
Again, we have fun.
That's all that matters, right?
A few weeks ago Rav dropped the bombshell on me. He looks at me with those big, brown eyes and says: I have to tell you. I'm not sure that there will be any Swing for us at this wedding. I have to work with these people. And if we suck, I'll never live it down. Hell, for that matter, if we're any good, I might not live it down.
I just nodded and schemed to myself that this may be the night that mommy might have to lay off of the liquor.
And plow daddy with some beer & a few shots.
Because mommy just bought some new dancing shoes.
And they're money, baby. Sooo money.
My money shoes, with my swing-era style dress.
They need a go-round on the floor.'
Co-workers be damned!
If I can't get daddy-o liquored up maybe some poor, unsuspecting soul who knows how to Swing will be my partner?!
If I hear those horns, or Glenn Miller...
I'm like gone, baby. Solid gone.
2 ripples in the pond:
So you're going to get your husband drunk and drag him up onto the dance floor in front of all his coworkers so you can try out your new shoes. You go girl!
Good plan!
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