We actually had a choreographer, a dancer from "Wicked," and we were required to meet him at a Ninth Avenue studio for one planning session and one "touch-up."
How I feared this first session! There were floor-to-ceiling mirrors everywhere, so your gut was visible from many angles. (Marc and I never had anything other than a small eye-level mirror in our apartment, a blessing for a neurotic and also not-very-disciplined homosexual man!) A host of musical-theater memories came back to me: "Dance: Ten. Looks: Three. And I'm still on unemployment. Dancing for my own enjoyment. That ain't it, kid! That ain't it, kid!" And: "Kiss today goodbye, and point me toward tomorrow..." And: "God, I hope I get it! I hope I get it! How many people does he need???"
To my relief, the dance wasn't really a dance. It was more like choreographed walking. I was to spot Marc from the far corner of a crowded room; our eyes were meant to lock; there was a modified version of a jazz square, a brief waltz, some dipping. Our favorite move was the hug; Marc called this "the Huggie," because frequently, when I mean to get Wet Wipes, I'm too lazy to find them at Duane Reade and return with an infant's box of Huggies, instead. We also had a move called "the flower," where you extend one arm outward, as if scattering rose petals for the masses. We practiced these moves in Central Park (!) and in our kitchen, where our dog tried to hump us. We murmured to each other when we would hear about high-profile music events in New York City. ("I wonder if that singer knows about 'the flower.'" "Maybe we need to go and teach her 'the Huggie.'")
The actual dance came and went, and it's captured on film somewhere. I refuse to watch; my husband insists that, one day, I will watch. I can recall, during the actual "performance," barking terse reminder-commands, such as: "Hip-wiggle!" "Huggie!" My inner control-freak couldn't resist. And I remember feeling only moderately embarrassed, and happy to have found the guy I'd found. People tend not to mention this dance when they talk about the wedding, and that's A-OK. We can consign it, gently, "to oblivion."
Occasionally, my husband will ask me to revisit portions of the dance in our own home, and I'm reasonably compliant. Marc struggles with the proper recollection of verses, but this doesn't keep him from trying: "Don't ask me la da dee da da....Meeeemeeeemeeemeee!"
He--Marc--also speaks of hypothetical future evenings of dance. Nights on the town. I generally understand that he's joking. Generally. He knows I would rather stay in with "Middlemarch." But then: Is that really the case? Life has many surprises. I did take part in the "Huggie," willingly: Whatever else that dance was, it was, most certainly, half-mine.
*P.S. I should mention here that, when I talk about Huggies, I'm not referring to diapers. I didn't buy diapers. Huggies makes its own version of the Wet Wipe. One (Huggies brand) is for infants; the Wet Wipe product is for adults. The difference isn't actually clear to me. I've used--and enjoyed--both products!
How I feared this first session! There were floor-to-ceiling mirrors everywhere, so your gut was visible from many angles. (Marc and I never had anything other than a small eye-level mirror in our apartment, a blessing for a neurotic and also not-very-disciplined homosexual man!) A host of musical-theater memories came back to me: "Dance: Ten. Looks: Three. And I'm still on unemployment. Dancing for my own enjoyment. That ain't it, kid! That ain't it, kid!" And: "Kiss today goodbye, and point me toward tomorrow..." And: "God, I hope I get it! I hope I get it! How many people does he need???"
To my relief, the dance wasn't really a dance. It was more like choreographed walking. I was to spot Marc from the far corner of a crowded room; our eyes were meant to lock; there was a modified version of a jazz square, a brief waltz, some dipping. Our favorite move was the hug; Marc called this "the Huggie," because frequently, when I mean to get Wet Wipes, I'm too lazy to find them at Duane Reade and return with an infant's box of Huggies, instead. We also had a move called "the flower," where you extend one arm outward, as if scattering rose petals for the masses. We practiced these moves in Central Park (!) and in our kitchen, where our dog tried to hump us. We murmured to each other when we would hear about high-profile music events in New York City. ("I wonder if that singer knows about 'the flower.'" "Maybe we need to go and teach her 'the Huggie.'")
The actual dance came and went, and it's captured on film somewhere. I refuse to watch; my husband insists that, one day, I will watch. I can recall, during the actual "performance," barking terse reminder-commands, such as: "Hip-wiggle!" "Huggie!" My inner control-freak couldn't resist. And I remember feeling only moderately embarrassed, and happy to have found the guy I'd found. People tend not to mention this dance when they talk about the wedding, and that's A-OK. We can consign it, gently, "to oblivion."
Occasionally, my husband will ask me to revisit portions of the dance in our own home, and I'm reasonably compliant. Marc struggles with the proper recollection of verses, but this doesn't keep him from trying: "Don't ask me la da dee da da....Meeeemeeeemeeemeee!"
He--Marc--also speaks of hypothetical future evenings of dance. Nights on the town. I generally understand that he's joking. Generally. He knows I would rather stay in with "Middlemarch." But then: Is that really the case? Life has many surprises. I did take part in the "Huggie," willingly: Whatever else that dance was, it was, most certainly, half-mine.
*P.S. I should mention here that, when I talk about Huggies, I'm not referring to diapers. I didn't buy diapers. Huggies makes its own version of the Wet Wipe. One (Huggies brand) is for infants; the Wet Wipe product is for adults. The difference isn't actually clear to me. I've used--and enjoyed--both products!
To live is to dance
ReplyDeleteAmen!
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