You can dance if you want to…we can leave your friends behind.
Cuz your friends don’t dance and if they don’t dance, then they’re no friends of mine…
You can dance…
The wedding has finally come, and about time, too.
I’m not sleeping until I drop you a beat, er, blog, and hit the highlights for you.
Mostly, I could NOT stop taking photos of sparkles.
Sunlight filtered through eucalyptus trees. Fizzy champagne flutes. The flash of dangling earrings.
Chandeliers in trees, in rooms, in the reception tent. There were twinkle lights in every leafy bower and hidden pathway and in the bride’s eyes.
There were scalloped-edged china, floating candles, calla lilies.
Exhausted parents, pleased as punch.
Extended family and friends from far away came in their finery and took part in a tradition as old as time: the Macarena.
You aren’t properly married until you pack your guests into a closet-sized area and watch them hop up and down with their hands waving wildly overhead.
And they won’t perform the ritual without the proper preliminaries, to wit:
Sit them in the sunshine of a warm summer day for an hour until softened. Ply them with finger foods and encourage them to visit the bar while endless rounds of wedding photos are made.
Once seated in the shade, have enough toasts to reduce even grandpa to slurry speech. Watch the group at table eleven begin to whistle and cheer before the speech ends. Admire that enthusiasm.
Serve a nice meal in order to separate the sheep from the goats. After eating, the sheep will wander off in search of barcaloungers and the goats will push back from the tables and start pronking.
The playlist had been chosen, so I was informed, to appeal to all of the generations present.
I observed the dancers for a while, judging the caliber of music by the articles of clothing that were discarded as the night wore on.
The eras wandered a bit. Everything from the 40s, 50s, and 60s were mildly received. The only thing set aside by the dancers was their cell phone.
The 70s came by and ties were loosened. Jackets landed on chair backs.
When the 80s showed up, some high heels were ditched.
After that, it was all jumping up and down and ties wrapped around foreheads and between the break-dancing and line dancing I managed to get in a slow dance or two with my sons who were competing with their sisters for square footage on the floor.
And believe me when I tell you, theirs are not small feet.
I had heard most of this music lately, but it had been a while since I’d seen my kids apply body motions to it.
My girlfriends and I watched in wonder as our kids busted moves I’d never seen before.
Some of the goats were kicking, for crying out loud.
That does NOT qualify as a dance move, I don’t care who you are.
“Let’s just copy what our kids are doing,” I hollered into my girlfriend’s ear.
The music was making up for lack of style with sheer volume.
I felt like I was playing double dutch, timing my entrance to the dance floor with the downbeats and praying I wouldn’t step left when the whole floor stepped right.
Upon successful entry, we proceeded to emulate what can only be described as a zombie getting tasered.
You throw your upper body backward, rocking it from side to side in a giant “Don’t touch me with that spider!” motion, while your arms flop back and forth from the elbow down only.
The rest of the time, we just hopped up and down in place while attempting to pound on the ceiling which counts as aerobics in my book.
Let them eat cake.
And the cake was lovely.
I really have to sleep now. I’ve gone deaf in one ear. My feet are wondering why we went to the gym in heels. Hubby is wondering why I’m still up.
My fingertips are painted in champagne glitter and they look so pretty, flashing along the keyboard.
They just don’t want the party to end.