Ever since a string of bad boyfriends left Leigh cynical and dark, she kept her heart closed off. With the help of some dark magic, she sarcastically wishes for a devil to dance with at her cousin's wedding, but her worst nightmare shows up instead...
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Oh fuck no.
I hear the first slicing sounds of an accordion, like polka dot nails on a chalkboard. The familiar grating up and down, see-sawing notes increase in pace and volume, spiking my already percolating cortisol levels flowing through my bloodstream. I suck in my breath and close my eyes. No, no, no.
My mom suddenly grasps my arm, "Oh, the Chicken Dance! Fun! Come on, Leigh, let's do it!"
Dancing in public, especially to this song, is practically a phobia of mine. I'd rather walk over Lego bricks on fire, please, and thank you. "Hard pass."
"Really? Are you just going to drink wine and hide behind this flower arrangement the entire reception?"
"Plants and flowers are my kind of people, Mom, so yes."
She sighs heavily, "Fine. Suit yourself," and jogs out to join the other group-dance freaks in the center of the room.
Holy hell. Especially THAT dude.
My eyes are assaulted by a guy who is so personally invested in the dance that you'd think he'd been paid to be here as Mr. Chicken Dance himself. I know he's not, though; he's one of the two best men to the groom, and watching him crouch and flap his wings in his penguin suit is nearly comical. What a freakin' weirdo. Doesn't he even care what people think? I feel personally embarrassed just watching him.
A few more guests run to join the spectacle, and the synchronized clapping begins its onslaught.
I'm out.
Where though?
There is no way I feel comfortable mingling with the crowd in the adjoining room without my parents as a buffer. Parties and large social gatherings are my version of earthy hell. I forget everyone's names as soon as they tell me, and thinking of questions to ask people I don't know gives me anxiety days in advance.
So, heading in the opposite direction of all the intimidating strangers, I whisk myself away to the empty ladies' room to try to block it out. The washroom door closes behind me with a dull thud, and with it, the chicken dance. Fucking finally.
Downing the last of my red wine and setting the glass on the counter, I straighten my off-the-shoulder black dress. I know—it's a wedding, but I don't do color. Scrutinizing myself in the mirror, I bare my teeth, checking for a stuck bit of salad, then fix my make-up, brushing away some stray mascara flakes off my cheek. Damn, my dramatic feline-esque eyeliner still looks flawless. I may not know how to small talk, but I do know how to rock some kick-ass cat eyes.
God, how much longer is this reception going to last?
I flew out yesterday for my cousin's wedding in rural northern California and will fly home in the afternoon tomorrow. The bride, Ren Baker, or Regali, I should say now, married her childhood sweetheart twelve years after they broke up in high school, and the whole story and wedding is just so... sickeningly sweet.
