The good thing about finding yourself at a wedding reception with muddy feet, wet clothes and a date who doesn’t particularly care for your well being is that things can’t possibly get any worse.
But then Date #7 leads me to the bar and someone drops a glass. Being that we’re in a freakin’ tent affixed to an eighteenth-century farmhouse, the floor is stone and the glass shatters. I don’t realize I’ve been hit until I take a look at my ankle and see blood.
I teach dance for a living and although it appears to be just a small scratch, I can’t tell if the glass has bounced back onto the floor or if it’s imbedded itself permanently into my flesh.
“Are you okay?” Date #7 asks, suddenly the very picture of concern.
“I don’t know,” I murmur. “I think so.”
But I’m so cold and bewildered and sick of being assailed by various objects (not mention the dangerous terrain) that I can’t think straight.
For once, Date #7 can.
He leads me back to our table, where the light’s better, and takes my ankle into his lap. Slowly, he caresses my skin and asks, “May I have your permission to ascertain if there are any breaks?”
Okay, so he doesn’t say that.
That’s what Willoughby says to Kate Winslet’s character in Sense and Sensibility, but Date #7 does say something along those lines and once we’ve determined that is, indeed, just a flesh wound, he asks me to dance.
Now, Date #7 has spent the past six months telling me how much he loves to dance. (Mind you, he’s also told me that he has a great sense of humor…) He doesn’t give off much of a “dancer” vibe so I’m surprised that I haven’t had to drag him up to the dance floor.
I discover, a few minutes into the first set, that we share a mutual love of Usher (fortunately the DJ refrains from playing “Yeah” so I’m forced to refrain from performing the Jazzercize routine I learned to “Yeah” back in high school, nor can I subject those standing nearby to my mad gangsta rap skills as I did at my friend’s wedding last month). Granted, Date #7 isn’t the greatest dancer, but he’s willing. And I’ve always maintained that being willing is half the battle.
Before long, I find that I’m actually enjoying myself. And once I explain to Date #7 that he can’t link his fingers through mine and expect me to turn (unless of course he wants to break my wrist) we don’t look half bad.
An aunt or neighbor or somebody comes up to me and whispers something in my ear. I try not to laugh but I can’t help it.
“What did she say?” Date #7 demands.
“I’m not sure if I should tell you…”
Now, I know I’ve spent the past six days chronicling everything that went wrong over the course of the weekend (and that I’ve also spent the past six months detailing the many ways in which Date #7 has disappointed me) but he’s not a bad guy. He’s just bad for me.
“Come on!” he urges.
“Okay.” I take a deep breath. “She said I make you look good, like those couples on Dancing with the Stars.”
His blue eyes get all crinkly for a moment, and before I know it, he’s laughing. Actually laughing. This is a first.