The mime & me

At the Paris themed party I attended this weekend in Palm Springs, there was a mime. A mime!

While in line, I see him and think about David Bowie who was a mime for a bit. The mime has on a black and white striped shirt and a bowler hat and he has a grey beard and a black and white painted face (of course). And he might have suspenders on. 

While I am standing there, we lock eyes, which isn't hard because I'm staring at the mime. I'm wearing a black dress with a red petticoat. He walks up, and points at my dress and nods. Then he grabs my arm and escorts me into the party. I'm so happy, I could burst. 

We walk in together, the mime's arms flailing widely by his sides. We step in concert, marching to the beat of music I hear the strains of from inside the party. The mime brings me to the entrance, my family trailing behind, my husband Adrian quizzically looking at me as if I planned this.

Then voila, we are at a picture stand. The mime puts his hands in a heart. I do too. I blow the heart up. He smiles and puts his finger in his dimple and bows. The mime and me take pictures together preening, making faces, and gesturing and diagramming to communicate. 

The mime fake hugs me, arms wide. After a minute, the mime knocks the door on the picture booth, and out comes a hand with a glass of champagne like magic. The mime disappears, but it's not over. 

I find the mime again. I know we need to do the "imaginary box" mime trick. I see him and run up to him, pretending I'm stuck inside an imaginary box. My hands feeling the imaginary glass. I've seen it in movies. The mime immediately understands my hand gestures & helps me out by trying to smash the box then somehow, gently opening an imaginary door that I step through with a woosh of my petticoat. 

Then later, the mime takes a picture with my twin sister Jackie at a purple windmill. We say our goodbyes with an enthusiastic wave as I wipe an imaginary tear from my eye. 

My mom remarks that the clown is funny and cute. I say, "Mom that's offensive, he's a mime, mimes are not clowns. They're performance artists."

A few days later, my husband will say, "Please stop with all the mime talk. No one likes a mime." I retort with a raised brow, "Except me and the entirety of France." Touché.