Two Sundays ago, my dance company, The Lady Hoofers, performed at an artist’s showcase here in town. This is important for two reasons:
1) I finally had to shave my legs.
2) It gave us some time backstage to go over the rehearsal schedule for the next few weeks.
“I may or may not be there on the 4th,” I announced.
“What’s up?” one of my dancers asked.
“I’m having a booty call.”
“Well, yes. Maybe. I don’t know.” I lowered my voice thankful that none of our Youth Company dancers were around to hear me, their fearless leader, A) admit to feeling sexually frustrated and B) use the words “booty call.”
Such words aren’t generally part of my vocabulary. I wasn’t even sure if I was using them correctly. (Does one have a booty call? Make a booty call? Place a booty call? I’m still not entirely certain.)
As I sat there wondering, another dancer asked, “Who’s the guy?”
“An old friend from college.”
We met in a friend’s dorm my senior year. There was lot of alcohol involved. He invited me to join him for brunch the next morning (which isn’t actually as impressive as it sounds; on the weekends, our school only served brunch) but because he was a full TWO YEARS younger than me (shock, gasp, HORROR), I sent him a lengthy email explaining that I absolutely could not be with him and proceeded to start dating a man 12 years my senior.
We’ve kept in touch on and off (more “off” than “on” while I was with TWD, in fact I pretty much ignored him completely which was just as well seeing as he was in med school at the time) but one thing led to another and he is, as I sit here typing, on his way to Philadelphia for the weekend.
“I figure it would be better to rebound with someone I actually know, someone I actually respect, than just some random guy, right? And neither of us wants a relationship so it’s perfect. I’ll finish grieving, I’ll rebound, I’ll pull myself together and I’ll be good to go!”
“You have it planned out?”
It was only then that I realized how utterly ridiculous I was being. (This conversation, mind you, took place before last Monday night’s date and accompanying epiphany that I am NOT AT ALL READY TO DATE).
But I plan everything, from what day to shave my legs so that I can shave them again before my next performance (I’m usually on a Wednesday/Saturday plan) to rebound hook ups.
Does this make me crazy?
Do I care?
Not really. I’ve been this way for the better part of three decades at this point. And I didn’t actually write “Booty Call” on my Google calendar. I just wrote, “So-and-so visiting.” And what’s the harm in that?