I did the sprinkler dance at my work's holiday gala this weekend and I regret it. I mean I really regret it. My regret tastes bittersweet, like one of the numerous B-52's (a mixture of Grand Marnier, Bailey's and Kahlua on the rocks in a short glass) that I quickly downed one after another after we finally found a seat at a table.
I could try and blame my husband because we were late (he was trying to get out of going as usual), but if I am honest with myself, and you, the truth is that I was trying to stifle the anxiety that made my palms sweat and my temples pound.
I don't know what I was anxious about.
Maybe it was the fact that my dress (bought in the fat girl section of Macy's the night before) didn't quite cover my ample chest so that I had to wear a sequined tank top underneath.
Or, perhaps it was because when I tried straightening my hair like the girl at the salon did the week before, it turned out puffy and frizzy.
I guess it could be just plain insecurity although I usually fake being confident pretty well.
It didn't have to go this way, it really didn't. I tried switching to beer but it was too late because the hard alcohol had already deluded me into thinking I could dance when in actuality I have inherited my father's German genes in that regard.
Before you know it, I was "smurfing" (put one foot over one another for approximately five sidesteps to the right and then turn and do the same thing to the left) to Madonna's "Holiday".
Shortly thereafter, I started doing "the Robot" (put arms out in front of you and move arms up and down while bending at the waist in a jerky movement, think of the robot from "Lost in Space") to some random 70's song.
The worst part is that I keep on having flashbacks, as if I am in a Quentin Tarintino film where everything is out of sequence.
Flashback one: Three drinks in, I leave my husband at the table while I go smoke downstairs in the casino with a co-worker I will call Jane. I return twenty minutes later and my husband is annoyed.
Question: Do I do the right thing and try and make him happy by hanging out? No, of course not (five points if you got that right). Instead, I go stand in line for another twenty minutes to buy myself another drink. By this time Adrian is refusing to drink with me because after eighteen plus years together, he knows how this story will end.
Flashback two: I stand up to applaud when "Jane" wins an award and my beer
spills in large pools onto the table.
Did I mention my new supervisor was sitting next to me?
Flashback three: I see myself on the dance floor with my arm cocked behind my head as my feet slide around in a circle, my body mimicking a back yard sprinkler. I look as if I am putting on my own personal version of the "I'm a little teapot short and stout" nursery rhyme from my childhood. I feel as if I could dance forever, until I see people pointing and laughing.
I know that public defenders are a forgiving lot, but can they forgive my travesties of body movement? Can't wait for Monday
Flashbacks aside, I payed bitterly for all my joyfulness the next morning. As we drove home, I barfed into Adrian's Starbucks bagel bag not once, not twice, but three times. And then the bag broke and spilled puke slash Sprite all over me.
There is no moral to this story by the way. This is not an after school special episode. I guess what I learned, if I learned anything at all, is that I should not be allowed to do the sprinkler dance ever again.