Thursday, July 12, 2012

Day Two-Forty-Nine: Dance Dance Devolution

I spoke with Libby last night, shortly before we went to bed, regarding my last-minute worries over the wedding. I told her, as I have MANY times in the past, that I don't want it to happen - but it will anyway. I can't stop it. Hence, I wanna make sure I'm at least THERE for my little girl. Hence, we should at least TRY to do these lessons correctly. HENCE, maybe she shouldn't wear the moustache anymore.

'specially since it tickled my face when I tried to kiss her. The feeling's weirdly off-puttin'.

Libby shrugged. She didn't give a crap. She told ME, as she rolled over and tried to sleep, that she was tired of the castle's nonsense. Once the wedding is over - and she would indeed let me stay here to see it through - she plans to move. She wants nothing to do with Eve, and thinks we can do much better in a SANE kingdom, far from King Jeffrey's idiocy.

I wish I coulda argued that. We have a house here, now. It's home. But… it's losing its charm, and fast. I gave up and went to sleep.

This morning, when Harold came to get us, I told him Libby wouldn't be participating. I said that she might not be coming to the wedding at all, and that we might be better off for it. Because let's face it, diary, Libby doesn't wanna go to this thing. She'd sooner see it ruined than act like a noble. I can't blame her, and I won't, but I need to see it through, all proper like.

Harold was fine with that. Libby's been buggin' him all week, and besides that, she wasn't REALLY needed for today's lesson: dancing.

Dancing is big with nobles. They LOVE to dance. Commoners don't mind it so much, either, but we're less… structured. Our dancing usually looks a lot like drowning, 'cept out of the water. And with a lot less of the death. Death doesn't go so well with dancing. Nobles aren't big on the death, so we've got that in common, but they also like formal, organized dances, from what I've seen and heard.

Who better to teach a country bumpkin wearin' a wig and a silly outfit, then, than the best dancer in the whole kingdom?

"Hello, Mud." Celine greeted me on the spacious dance floor of the nobles' wing with a courteous bow. "Come to dance with me?"

"I s'ppose so, your grace." I dipped as regally as I could. My wig fell off. I scrambled to pick it back up.

Celine laughed. "So glad I don't have to wear one of those things. Shall we, Mud?" She extended her hand.

I'm not sure why I got a little girl for a dance partner, good at it or otherwise. Celine's just barely half my height. The equivalent of a midget in a dress (rather mean-spirited, but that's the mental image I got thinkin' about it) ain't exactly conducive for learning the ropes. And, predictably, it ended… not so hotly for me. CELINE was fine, but… me… no.

Allow me to explain. There's only ONE REASON I need to learn how to dance, and that's for traipsing about with Eve in the reception's father-daughter dance. For the sum total of three minutes, I need to gallivant about in front of dozens of nobles and look like I know what I'm doing. I saw Eve eating a moat monster earlier today, so PRESUMABLY she's not embarked on similar training. Makes my part in the dance all the more importance.

'course, she… might just hurl me over her shoulder and call it a night when I try to dance with her. But I will chance it! It's a risk I'm willing to take for my lovely daughter!


Assuming I ever LEARN properly.

I TRIED, diary. Honest to the gods, cross my heart and swear to spit, I tried SO HARD to dance. Harold yelled us instructions from the sidelines, I listened intently to EVERYTHING Celine had to say, and… I stepped. And stepped. And stepped. Edmund stood on the sidelines, providing some nice violin music, and I did my best to keep to the rhythm. Everything's rhythm with Celine.

Didn't work. Every time I put my foot down, it was in the wrong place. I stumbled dang near everywhere trying to keep on an even level with my dance partner. Probably looked like a big, hairless ape gropin' for a banana on the ground. My first attempt at dancing ended when my feet gave out and I slammed into one of the walls.

Quite a feat, that, when you take into consideration the side of the room. Musta been four or five meters away when I started.

It got worse, not better. Despite my best efforts my meagre dancing skills faded and disappeared. I became a rag doll on jiggling legs, unable to keep to the tune or even HOPE to look poised. Second attempt, crash. Third attempt, crash. Fourth attempt, crash into Edmund, then Harold, then ALMOST Celine.

'cept she, uh, tripped me when I got close.

The princess LOVED dancing with me, if you could call it that. She giggled throughout the entire session, slipping between my awkward feet and dodging every flailing limb or heavy swoop. By the end I think she considered it less a lesson 'n more fun time for her. We're on opposite ends of the dancing spectrum, and I doubt that's gonna change any time soon.

Four hours of practice and a bloody nose later, Harold sent me home. I could tell by his expression that he despaired for the morrow, and I didn't have the heart to ask him what's coming next on the socialite agenda. Conversations? Public speaking? Fancy wine sipping? BAH!

I give. I'll just have to hope that the wedding is so chaotic that nobody even notices my boobery. I betcha that'll come true.


Dragomir the Guard

1 comment:

  1. Maybe Dragomir's mind is just not up to the task of focusing on a rhythm: "One-Two-Three, One-Two-Three, One-Eight-Dog, Cheese-On-Toast, I-Dislike-Jeffrey" and other thought's are running through his head?