Bachelorette Party

I would have blogged yesterday, but I had to keep my neck in one position because I was so sore from the DANCE PARTY on Saturday night. Apparently, 35-year old bodies should not do the worm without a proper warm up!

Planned by my sister Caroline, the bridal caboose posse, which may land a gig as Justin Timberlake's backup ladies in the near future, shimmied and swiveled all around during our hip hop dance lesson. If I had to dream up the perfect dance party, it would have been this evening. Our instructor, Whitney, fresh out of the wrapper, was a giddy 23-year-old dance major from Columbia. She was stunned at the size of our group, which swelled to 15 at its peak. She was also stunned at our ages-- she's has for sure never seen anyone over the age of 29 jam like me and the ladies. She said at the end of the lesson that she hopes she is still fun when she is 35, and she said it in that way that I sometimes say that I hope I have energy to run the free world between sips of Metamucil and bites of Viagra, like John McCain. I am not sure that Whitney understood, when she asked for any requests, the significance of one caboose rider's ardent plea for "Freebird." I am 99.9% positive that Whitney has never heard of Freebird.


The scene of the action was All About Dance on Clark Street. There were feather boas all over the room and plenty of mirrors so I could watch my little muffin top shimmy along to the beat of Amy Winehouse's Rehab. Funny, I never thought of Ms. Win(0)house as the "hip hop" type, but the beat was right on for us. Also, with our collective years of therapy and self-exploration, that was actually a very perceptive choice. Bridled With Joy is in favor of rehab, so the irony was rich!

It's a little sobering to feel like I need either traction or a neck replacement from about an hour of dancing. It was that move where Whitney had us slap the floor that really did me in. That and the little sideways snake thing. In my mind's eye I could imagine what I look like dancing, but then I would catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror and see that my imagination was being very generous to me. And considering that I was picturing myself as a young, female Usher or Janet Jackson (like old school "Janet if you're nasty" Janet Jackson), I probably should have known that I was either delusional or psychotic. I looked more like Bonnie Raitt or Phyllis Diller. Never seen them dance? THAT'S THE POINT!

Other highlights included more bridal caboose generosity poured on me in the form of lovely lingerie to wear as a married woman. It's all so pretty and delicate. It's going to be a shock to Jeff's system to see me sleeping in anything other than 10-year-old 5K Race t-shirts and 4.99 gems from Old Navy. It will be a shock to me to sleep in something other than head-to-toe velour (or faux velour) and Jeff's old sweat socks. I spent yesterday dedicating a drawer to all my new treasures. I am so happy to have such pretty silky fun outfits to sleep in. (And yes, I understand it may not be all about sleeping.) But, for this recovering Catholic school girl, having pretty lingerie that doesn't scare me or intimidate me or make me feel like I have to run to a Monsignor and "confess" that I used my sexuality for something other than procreating it's a very good thing not to feel more pressure. I promised not to wear any of it until our honeymoon, but I cheated and wore the super yummy soft top and bottoms from Gap Body that Mary, Debbie and Joyce gave me. I couldn't help myself!

I do love having about 25 new pairs of undergarments. It means I won't have to rush home as often to do laundry because I don't have any clean unmentionables. It also means that when I have forgotten, after rushing home, to do the laundry, then I don't have to raid Jeff's underwear drawer (actually it's a shelf in our linen closet, but that's another story) and pick out a nice pair of boxer briefs to wear under my suit. I am pretty sure that's not healthy for anyone!

Other hightlights include the perfect wedding "hope cake" that my friend Annie made for us. Originally, it was going to be a pinata-- a joke from the early days of my dress when I was convinced it looked like a quincenera dress and Krista suggested we have a pinata at the wedding. From there, Annie reinterpreted the pinata and made what we are lovingly referred to as a "hope cake" filled with about 100 lbs of the best candy in the world. We're talking twizzlers, mini-caramel snickers, butterfingers, tootsie pops, nerds and laffy taffy.

Between the acute neck pain and the sugar poisoning, is it any wonder why I am drooling at my desk all day and weeping uncontrollably?