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A Glittery Moment in Time
Jan. 18th, 2004 02:14 pmLast night's dance performance was surreal. Due to a misapprehension of how much time I had left, I was dressed and in makeup in less than fifteen minutes. Unfortunately, I ripped my glittery blue crocheted body stocking in the panic. It isn't the sturdiest of costumes, by any means, and is very difficult to put on and take off. f00 gave it a really hasty patch job, but I'm afraid I won't be able to fix it properly.
When I arrived at the Delta Hotel, I met up with the party planner. Because of technical difficulties with a PowerPoint demonstration, I'd be going on a bit later than anticipated. This gave me an opportunity to catch my breath and do something a little better with my hair. I plaited the tresses framing my face. This looks good, and also serves to keep my hair out of the way during spins and head tosses.
I left the washroom to take my place outside the ballroom. Intoxicated guests were weaving their ways up and down the hallways. I received more than a few double- and triple-takes. I conspiratorially told them not to give away the surprise to the birthday boy, and they were excited to share such a portentous secret. Then, an attractive and drunken lady of about forty weebled her way toward me. She was dragging along a reluctant boy of about twelve to fourteen years.
She babbled something slurring and incoherent. I didn't catch most of it. But here's what I remember: "...anyways, it's because they're all old and senile. But not like her," she said, gesturing toward me. "You're just for play, right?"
I smiled, not having a clue what she was trying to say. It seemed vaguely insulting, but she was drunk and I wouldn't have to cope with her for long.
She grabbed one of my braids and tugged lightly. Looking at the boy, she said, "See these braids? They're pretty, but they're not real." She let go of my hair and hoisted her breasts with both hands. "Just like these!" She cackled, and teetered off, the longsuffering boy in tow.
Finally, it was showtime. I heard the opening notes of "Min Aboukra l'Ashiye" by Emad Sayyah. I flowed into the ballroom with zills snapping, and the throngs separated to let me pass. I felt like Moses parting the Red Sea. The guest of honour was segregated at the front of the room, sitting in a thronelike chair. I danced around him. He looked overwhelmed. While I danced and zilled, he tried chatting with me. The music and audience were very loud, but I was able to figure out from him that his wife takes dance lessons. I gestured to her to come up and join me, but she demurred, laughing.
Then their son ran up to the front of the room and took a seat beside his father on another chair. It was time for the Gamal Gomaa drum solo. The crowd was screaming its appreciation. I grasped the father and son by their hands and playfully tried to draw them up to join me, and the crowd noise increased logarithmically. But the two men wouldn't budge, which is just as well. I finished the dance, and ended with a deep, flourishing curtsey. I wished the father a happy birthday, and waded back through the mob to the exit, saying thank you to the many compliments I received.
And then I returned to my unglamourous home where I put on a bathrobe and watched Iron Chef until it was time to go to bed. And how was your night?
When I arrived at the Delta Hotel, I met up with the party planner. Because of technical difficulties with a PowerPoint demonstration, I'd be going on a bit later than anticipated. This gave me an opportunity to catch my breath and do something a little better with my hair. I plaited the tresses framing my face. This looks good, and also serves to keep my hair out of the way during spins and head tosses.
I left the washroom to take my place outside the ballroom. Intoxicated guests were weaving their ways up and down the hallways. I received more than a few double- and triple-takes. I conspiratorially told them not to give away the surprise to the birthday boy, and they were excited to share such a portentous secret. Then, an attractive and drunken lady of about forty weebled her way toward me. She was dragging along a reluctant boy of about twelve to fourteen years.
She babbled something slurring and incoherent. I didn't catch most of it. But here's what I remember: "...anyways, it's because they're all old and senile. But not like her," she said, gesturing toward me. "You're just for play, right?"
I smiled, not having a clue what she was trying to say. It seemed vaguely insulting, but she was drunk and I wouldn't have to cope with her for long.
She grabbed one of my braids and tugged lightly. Looking at the boy, she said, "See these braids? They're pretty, but they're not real." She let go of my hair and hoisted her breasts with both hands. "Just like these!" She cackled, and teetered off, the longsuffering boy in tow.
Finally, it was showtime. I heard the opening notes of "Min Aboukra l'Ashiye" by Emad Sayyah. I flowed into the ballroom with zills snapping, and the throngs separated to let me pass. I felt like Moses parting the Red Sea. The guest of honour was segregated at the front of the room, sitting in a thronelike chair. I danced around him. He looked overwhelmed. While I danced and zilled, he tried chatting with me. The music and audience were very loud, but I was able to figure out from him that his wife takes dance lessons. I gestured to her to come up and join me, but she demurred, laughing.
Then their son ran up to the front of the room and took a seat beside his father on another chair. It was time for the Gamal Gomaa drum solo. The crowd was screaming its appreciation. I grasped the father and son by their hands and playfully tried to draw them up to join me, and the crowd noise increased logarithmically. But the two men wouldn't budge, which is just as well. I finished the dance, and ended with a deep, flourishing curtsey. I wished the father a happy birthday, and waded back through the mob to the exit, saying thank you to the many compliments I received.
And then I returned to my unglamourous home where I put on a bathrobe and watched Iron Chef until it was time to go to bed. And how was your night?
