Last night, I danced at a Goddess theme party. This is a regular gig for me, and the third year I've done it. The women are all
very interesting people, and are comprised of artists, martial artists, jewellers, chefs, and dancers. Unfortunately, I was not off
to a good start, last night. I hadn't had much sleep the night before (a few of my birthday party guests stayed very late), and I'd
worked at the store all day. When I got home, I slipped into the bathtub to relax for a couple of minutes before getting in
costume.
I fell asleep in the tub, and had to rush to get everything ready. I wore my blue and gold pantaloons, my red, white, and
black silk skirts, my brown, blue, red, and green tribal belt, my new black choli with multicoloured shisha embroidery. I left my
head uncovered because I'd had a special request to do some zaar-influenced dance, and a turban just wouldn't stay on. This is the
only gig I have where particular types of dance are requested. All the others just want me to dance, and don't ask for special props
or dance styles.
Finally, I was all set, and I called the cab. The driver was an enormous man who only barely fit into the driver's seat. He was
built like a stevedore or a foundry worker, and had a rough face to match. Incongruously, the CD he was playing was ballads by the
Backstreet Boys.
He drove me to the address, and it didn't seem quite right to me. There were no cars in the driveway. I walked to the side
entrance, and the cab pulled away. The door was locked, and despite my knocking, the only response was a cat peeking furtively from
a window.
It was drizzling out, but not too badly. I figured I was probably just off by one block, so I walked up the street until I came
to the right house. For some reason, I had written the address as 66 when it was really 166. Thank goodness it wasn't 966! In any
case, the walk gave me my warmup.
I got there a couple of minutes late because of the walk, but it was ok. The other guests were all running late, too. The
hostess welcomed me in and made chitchat while she was preparing some sangria. She asked me when my last dance experience had been,
and I told her the night before, at my own birthday party.
Surprised, she said, "That makes you a Gemini!"
"Uh, yes, I guess it does."
"Well, that's just weird. I can't stand Geminis. That makes you the only one I've ever liked!"
I wasn't quite sure how to react to that, so I shrugged.
"I think it's very important to know peoples' zodiacal signs. That way, you know what motivates them."
Personally, I think that's a very shallow view, but I was paid to be a dancer and not a James
Randi impersonator, so I kept my trap shut.
The hostess then gave me a nicely-wrapped gift. "This is for you! I get the feeling that you, of all people, will really like
it!"
I thanked her for the surprise, and opened it up. It was a copy of Clarissa Pinkola's Women Who Run With the Wolves. "Thank you!" I said.
"Have you read it before?"
"Yes, when it was first published." I remember thinking it was a mediocre book, with some interesting tidbits, but overall,
rather disappointing. "It was where I first learned about Baubo--my favourite goddess. I'll have
to read that section again! And it really does have an excellent title, doesn't it?"
When the guests had all arrived, it was time for me to dance. I danced to "Warda" by Asena, and a drum solo by Mokhtar al Said.
Then I gave a quick lesson on some basic moves. The women were all up and shimmying about in no time, and they danced until they all
glistened with perspiration. It was hot in there! Then, they asked me to dance again, and I improvised to "Chicky" by Oojami,
throwing in a lot of abdominal work and floor moves.
I was really exhausted, at this point, but did a good job in hiding it. What a long day I'd had! And they got me to dance again
and again with them as a group. Finally, I sat down with a glass of delicious sangria and said, "Who here does Highland dance?" A
couple of them jumped up with pretty legwork, and I tossed on a copy of "Azwaw" by Cheb Mami and Idir, a song that starts out
Algerian enough, but ends with some crazy Celtic bagpipes. That song pooped them out, and after they'd danced to "Shik Shak Shok"
and a few more drum solos, the party was oozing to a halt. I made my goodbyes, got a ride home with one of the guests, and collapsed
into my bed, too tired to wash my makeup off.