Friday, November 13, 2009
We’re off to a bush dance tonight. It’s an all-in, from grandmas to toddlers, school fundraiser, dosey-do affair and I’m digging around for the matching gingham twirly skirt and the boot scootin’ footwear. I LOVE a good bush dance and it promises to be an authentic affair, if the kid dress rehearsals are anything to go by. While the boy kid was appalled at the school Heel and Toe Polka practise, he was mightily impressed with the whip cracking.
So, I’m sort of giggly excited with a smirky grin on my face. The first time I went to a bush dance was the first time I was kissed. I was twelve or thereabouts and after getting to grips with the Pride of Erin Waltz with a good-looking, impressively-grown-up (sixteen year old), wholesome, country type, we were waiting out the next dance in awkward non-conversation. Then, taking me somewhat unawares, he lurched at me and kissed my left eye. Over his shoulder, I saw with my right eye, the look of unmitigated disgust on the face of my ten year old brother – which is what’s prompting today’s smirky grin.
The relationship came to an abrupt end that very night. It turned out the First Kiss Guy had an equally grown up, fairly identical twin, dressed in almost-matching cowboy duds. Imagine, if you will, a progressive barn dance and the unfortunate circumstances that may arise from dancing with a boy whom you thought just kissed you on the left eye, but didn’t and then some way around the circle later, dancing with the boy whom you thought regretted kissing you on the left eye, but didn’t, but did now.