Waltzing Through a Marriage's First Test
|
TOOLBOX
   Resize
COMMENT
 Discussion Policy
 CLOSE
Comments that include profanity or personal attacks or other inappropriate comments or material will be removed from the site. Additionally, entries that are unsigned or contain "signatures" by someone other than the actual author will be removed. Finally, we will take steps to block users who violate any of our posting standards, terms of use or privacy policies or any other policies governing this site. Please review the full rules governing commentaries and discussions. You are fully responsible for the content that you post.
Who's Blogging  |
Monday, February 12, 2007
Standing outside the grand ballroom, I heard the first notes of Eric Clapton's rendition of "Somewhere Over the Rainbow." My brand-new husband was by my side and I was squeezing his hand. Hard. Our wedding coordinator swung open the doors with a huge smile.
An hour earlier I hadn't batted an eye while taking vows to be true until death did us part. But now, my palms were sweating, my lips trembling and my head felt as if it was about to explode.
This was the moment I had dreaded.
Ron loves to dance; he adores live music and all that jazz. I was born with two left feet. One of our first dates was at a supper club where even a couple of strong cosmos couldn't unglue my butt from the bar stool. But because Ron had allowed me to choose nearly every other detail of our wedding, I agreed he could hire a band for the big night.
He booked a 12-piece ensemble that included a trumpet player, a trombone player, and three female backup singers. He promised the size of the band wouldn't overpower the banquet room full of our 100 guests. He promised the band would be a hit.
As for me? I would be dealt with through dance lessons.
Learning to dance is like learning to cook. If you follow the instructions to a T -- 1 pound ground beef, 2 eggs, 1 cup bread crumbs -- you'll end up with a concoction that technically passes as meatloaf, but without the improvisational skills of a chef, and the result never quite qualifies as delicious. So it is with dance. Back, back, side, together. I was rigid and refused to listen to the nuances of the song, preferring to simply count the beat in my head.
But, hey, at least I was officially dancing.
As we walked into the ballroom, Ron looked extraordinarily handsome in his tuxedo. I was nervous and pale in my white lace gown. Ron led me through a pathway around tables of applauding guests. Maybe this won't be so bad, I thought. It's an easy crowd to please.
The song started on a slow beat, so I handled the beginning routine with elegance, swaying side to side. Then I moved backward. Two steps and I halted. Ron nudged me on, but in three-inch Fenarolis and a wedding gown, I faltered. Rocking me side to side once more, Ron brushed his lips against my ear.
"What's wrong," he whispered.
"I keep stepping on the lining of my dress," I whispered back.
