Much apologies for my absence, but it was certainly for a good cause, so I hope you don’t mind.
I also hope you won’t mind if I indulge in a little story-telling this week, all of which will revolve around one special person, my cousin, Beck, who this time next week will step away from her rank as a single person and step instead onto the path of married life.
Beck has been in my life as long as I can ever remember, and has also been so amazingly supportive of this blog, that it feels only right to honor her. How? Why with embarrassing tales from our youth, of course!
Now, one of the things that has always bound Beck and I together was our love and taste in music. From as far back as I can recall, we often found ourselves bonding over shared musicians or songs that we loved, no matter who was the first to introduce it to the other. The Sundays, Ben Folds Five, Big Bad Voodoo Daddy, Dave Matthews Band, Save Ferris, Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young; all were bands that Beck introduced to me and eventually their songs became the soundtrack to my childhood. I will always cherish them, and her, for that.
What we also bonded on was our dancing. Let me rephrase…Beck could (and still can) dance. She’s always been very graceful, even when she walks.
Now, on the other hand, I must quote another one of our favorites, Phil Collins, and profess, “I Can’t Dance”. But that didn’t stop us from trying to coordinate our own moves!
The first attempt at choreography occurred one night when we were about 10, while watching HBO; a channel we were probably not allowed to watch at an hour I’m sure we weren’t supposed to be up for. The feature presentation music began and Beck mentioned how much she LOVED that music.
Feeling silly and goofy, we both got up and tried to dance along with it. I ended up just trying to match what she did- each taking two big steps, followed by two quick steps, crossing our paths, and then doing a jazz-hand/punch combo in a make-believe box. Hard to describe, and probably harder to imagine, but if you ever heard the HBO Feature Presentation music, you’d get the idea. Still can’t see it? Someday you may get the opportunity. I’m talking to you, Paula Abdul- straight up.
Our next attempt was a tad more organized. Instead of getting creative, we merely copied. The Electric Slide? The Macarena? Well, we did learn those, but we focused a bit more energy on a far more relevant and wide-spread hit- the “Romy and Michelle’s High School Reunion” Dance.
I’m sure you are WELL acquainted with that masterpiece of a film, but Beck and I always enjoyed it, especially the scene when the two are in a club and seamlessly break into a cool dance to the song “Stayin’ Alive”. Of course, we had to learn it, and did- after surprisingly many attempts. From then on, whenever we were in each other’s company and that song came on, we’d immediately get into place and meet odd glances with our spastic foot kicks.
Sure those were good times. But my favorite memory that involves this trifecta: Becky, Me, and the dance, has to be when we got into our heads that we wanted to be like Riverdance. Remember when that was popular for about 3 months? Didn’t stop us from begging our parents to take us to Irish dancing classes.
Beck managed to get to practice more often, but I only went once- and it was because of that one time, I vowed never again.
Beck’s mom, my aunt, drove us all the way out together one night for our lesson. We walked in, and instead of a one-on-one kind of thing, it was a class with about 7 or 8 other girls. Beck, as I said, had gone a few times, so she knew some of them.
Meanwhile I, in my over-sized pink sweatpants and white socks, tried to act inconspicuous- a difficult thing, considering the ceiling-high mirrors. If standing in tight dance clogs, wearing basically your pajamas, in a small studio with other far more graceful and agile females doesn’t completely scrub away that pesky dignity, putting up giant mirrors so you can stare at your own ass and back sweat should do the trick.
And if that doesn’t work- try to actually dance! You’ll be on your way to a psychiatrist couch with more problems than an 8th grader’s math test.
Still, despite my own neuroses, we shared something in these dance experiences. We started to become the people we would be someday. Me, the overly sensitive and painfully critical smart-ass, and Beck- the dignified and adventurous woman she is today.
I also hope you won’t mind if I indulge in a little story-telling this week, all of which will revolve around one special person, my cousin, Beck, who this time next week will step away from her rank as a single person and step instead onto the path of married life.
Beck has been in my life as long as I can ever remember, and has also been so amazingly supportive of this blog, that it feels only right to honor her. How? Why with embarrassing tales from our youth, of course!
Now, one of the things that has always bound Beck and I together was our love and taste in music. From as far back as I can recall, we often found ourselves bonding over shared musicians or songs that we loved, no matter who was the first to introduce it to the other. The Sundays, Ben Folds Five, Big Bad Voodoo Daddy, Dave Matthews Band, Save Ferris, Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young; all were bands that Beck introduced to me and eventually their songs became the soundtrack to my childhood. I will always cherish them, and her, for that.
What we also bonded on was our dancing. Let me rephrase…Beck could (and still can) dance. She’s always been very graceful, even when she walks.
Now, on the other hand, I must quote another one of our favorites, Phil Collins, and profess, “I Can’t Dance”. But that didn’t stop us from trying to coordinate our own moves!
The first attempt at choreography occurred one night when we were about 10, while watching HBO; a channel we were probably not allowed to watch at an hour I’m sure we weren’t supposed to be up for. The feature presentation music began and Beck mentioned how much she LOVED that music.
Feeling silly and goofy, we both got up and tried to dance along with it. I ended up just trying to match what she did- each taking two big steps, followed by two quick steps, crossing our paths, and then doing a jazz-hand/punch combo in a make-believe box. Hard to describe, and probably harder to imagine, but if you ever heard the HBO Feature Presentation music, you’d get the idea. Still can’t see it? Someday you may get the opportunity. I’m talking to you, Paula Abdul- straight up.
Our next attempt was a tad more organized. Instead of getting creative, we merely copied. The Electric Slide? The Macarena? Well, we did learn those, but we focused a bit more energy on a far more relevant and wide-spread hit- the “Romy and Michelle’s High School Reunion” Dance.
I’m sure you are WELL acquainted with that masterpiece of a film, but Beck and I always enjoyed it, especially the scene when the two are in a club and seamlessly break into a cool dance to the song “Stayin’ Alive”. Of course, we had to learn it, and did- after surprisingly many attempts. From then on, whenever we were in each other’s company and that song came on, we’d immediately get into place and meet odd glances with our spastic foot kicks.
Sure those were good times. But my favorite memory that involves this trifecta: Becky, Me, and the dance, has to be when we got into our heads that we wanted to be like Riverdance. Remember when that was popular for about 3 months? Didn’t stop us from begging our parents to take us to Irish dancing classes.
Beck managed to get to practice more often, but I only went once- and it was because of that one time, I vowed never again.
Beck’s mom, my aunt, drove us all the way out together one night for our lesson. We walked in, and instead of a one-on-one kind of thing, it was a class with about 7 or 8 other girls. Beck, as I said, had gone a few times, so she knew some of them.
Meanwhile I, in my over-sized pink sweatpants and white socks, tried to act inconspicuous- a difficult thing, considering the ceiling-high mirrors. If standing in tight dance clogs, wearing basically your pajamas, in a small studio with other far more graceful and agile females doesn’t completely scrub away that pesky dignity, putting up giant mirrors so you can stare at your own ass and back sweat should do the trick.
And if that doesn’t work- try to actually dance! You’ll be on your way to a psychiatrist couch with more problems than an 8th grader’s math test.
Still, despite my own neuroses, we shared something in these dance experiences. We started to become the people we would be someday. Me, the overly sensitive and painfully critical smart-ass, and Beck- the dignified and adventurous woman she is today.
No comments:
Post a Comment