Memoir Monday: So You Think You Can Dance

Hooray! I finally made it back on Travis' bandwagon - check it out here to see more fabulous, outrageous and most importantly, true stories.

This little memoir is actually about my wedding day. Don't worry, it's not going to be one of those sappy "oh, I wasn't complete until the day I married this man" schmaltz (although it was one of the best days of my life)... it's more about how I get drunk and forget stuff.


Anybubbles, you know the recent trend for having awesome dance routines for your first dance as a married couple? I totally started that! You see, in the lead up to our wedding, back in 2005, we (read: I) decided we were going to have a proper first dance. Yessir, none of that awkward shuffling with hubby's hand on your ass for me, uh huh! We were going to dance! And spin! And twirl! The day I mentioned the possibility of a Dirty Dancing style-lift was when hubby-to-be put his foot down. Spoilsport.



So we picked out "our song", and trotted off to the Dance Instructor. She choose a fox-trot based dance as the best to fit our music, and started teaching us the basic steps. Awesome. Then she decided that we should have a little routine done for us, so that we wouldn't just be doing very stylish circles around and around and around. Even awesomer. She choreographed a little routine for us and started teaching it to us (this is why now, when So You Think You Can Dance comes on TV, I can totally talk with absolute expertise about "picking up the chory"; "feet, feet!!" and other techy-lingo type stuff! *snort*).



All going well so far, wouldn't you agree, hubby-to-be and I dancing blissfully in each others arms (counting to ourselves the whole time, but blissful nonetheless), wedding plans well on track, all good.


Of course, me being me, while rushing out of work , late for another friends wedding two weeks before ours, I trip, fall down the steps (when will I learn, Stairs Are Not My Friend) and badly sprain my ankle.


Oh man, it was a bad one too, let me tell you. Mainly because I simply strapped it up with some tape from the first aid kit and went as planned to the wedding. Four hours and a lot of champagne and hobbling later, I am in the emergency room, getting my stockings cut off my ankle (which is now the size of a watermelon) and a Doctor is explaining why injuries, alcohol and especially painkillers do not all get along together. Bastard wouldn't give me any drugs til I sobered up apparently.


Over the next two weeks, I panicked, went to the physio, yelled at caterers etc. on the phone, panicked and went to the physio. On my first visit, they told me there was no way I was going to be able to dance on that ankle, maybe not even walk on it. By the day before the wedding, I could walk on it (while it was strapped), but had missed the last two dance lessons, which was where we "put together" the whole routine, with it's begining, middle and flourishy little this-way-that-way-slide-and-dip ending. I watched from the sidelines, while the intructor taught hubby, since at least the guy leading would know the routine. Hubby claimed he had no faith in his ability to remember this, dancing wasn't really his thing. So I paid close attention, I even took notes for God's sake! Little drawings of stick figures in various poses. I had the whole thing memorised, I was down with the turns, and knew the ending down pat. I figured it was all up to me to remember this, because hubby was no good at this sort of stuff, he had said so himself, it was all up to me!!!


So, the wedding day arrives, and I am drinking champange with my bridesmaids at 6am. I have snuck out and bought a pair of silver strappy sandals, since my shoe of choice for the day had like a 6-inch heel, and I thought I might need some back-up! We are run off our feet, between hair, make-up, flowers arriving, photographer trying to get a look-in, the whoel box and dice. We are steadily chugging our way through the champagne, and even though my Mum was smart enough to bring some sandwiches up, and I was starving, between the busyness and my nerves, I never got around to actually eating anything.


We have the ceremony, and it's lovely, I managed to wear my high heels down the aisle without collapsing in a heap (thanks to a very strong arm to lean on from Dad), and then I swap to my sandals for the photos etc.


We arrive at the reception venue and it's awesome, but I'll just fast-forward to when the MC calls us out for our first dance. Between getting ready, all the toasting and various stuff, I have drunk pretty much my body weight in champagne (which has always made me a little light-headed) and eaten ummm... nothing. I'm smashed (but in a totally classy way - white dresses will do that to you). Hubby tows me out to the dance floor, and we hold each other. "Do you remember the routine?" he asks. I look at him like I'm trying to pick him out of a line-up (gee officer, I know the face, I just can't think where from), "ummmm...."


"Don't worry" he says, and proceeds to lead me, very expertly, around the floor. I start wincing when I use my sprained ankle, so he skips a couple of the turns and holds most of my weight for me, we come up the big finish and he quickly whispers, "Forget the left one, just do the turn to the right and I'll catch you". He does, and then he dips me. I am left dumbfounded, light-headed (I will NEVER admit to swooning, it was the champagne dammit!) and SERIOUSLY impressed. When did he learn how do do this?

Moral of the story? Stairs are not my friend, and marry a man who can lift your bodyweight.