May I Have This Dance?

I am not a dancer. Now, behind closed doors, I'll dance with my little boy (he totally LOVES that) and I've been known to slow dance and even two-step, though a bit awkwardly, in public with my husband. But beyond that, you won't catch me on the dance floor. I don't have two left feet--I have three.

I didn't go to dances when I was in school--not Howdy dances or Homecoming dances or Christmas dances or anything. In fact, I didn't even go to my prom. I'm sure some of you just gasped in horror, but I honestly don't feel as though I missed a thing. I never had a date, and since I couldn't cut a rug with anything but scissors, I saw no point in paying good money to go to a dance by myself just to stand around and hold up the wall. No point at all.

I went to Oklahoma Baptist University during my college years, and being a Baptist college, they didn't have dances on campus--heaven forbid--because (didn't you know?) there is actually an 11th commandment and it is "Thou shalt not dance." They also didn't have what most colleges call sororities and fraternities either. They had what they called "service groups." Don't let the euphemism fool you though. They were very much still sororities and fraternities. Now, OBU would allow these service groups to sponsor dances off-campus, but they still couldn't call them "dances" because if they did, some of the trustees might stroke out and die. So, they called them "functions" which was actually short for "foot functions." Many of these functions were very casual get-togethers, open to all students, and not some formal affair (although they had those, too).

In keeping with my previous record, I arrived at my senior year of college having never attended even one of those functions. That is, until I saw a sign advertising that the Lambdas were hosting a function at the roller rink there in town. Now I had not been rollerskating in ages, and had many fond memories of doing so as a kid, and I thought that it might be very fun to go, and to get my roommates to go with me. I went back to my apartment and talked it up to my three roomies, and they got excited about it too. We all made plans to go together, and started really looking forward to having something to do on the weekend.

So, the big night came and we got ready to go. My roommate Tammy even had her own rollerskates and she brought them along so she wouldn't have to rent a pair at the rink. We pulled into the parking lot and got out, Tammy with her skates in tow. As we approached the door, the guy who was taking money for the event took one look at Tammy with her skates and said incredulously, "What are those?" Tammy said, "I brought my own skates." Then he said with a smirk, "You're not going to be needing those in there." At that moment, it dawned on the rest of us that there was not going to be any skating at that function. Only fuctioning. They just happened to be using the roller rink as a dance floor. How could we have been so stupid? Unfortunately, it didn't dawn on Tammy quite that quickly and she began arguing with the guy about why she couldn't use her own skates. Even though we really wanted to pretend that we didn't know her, we quickly ushered Tammy away and back to the car to put up her skates, explaining the situation to her as we went. At that point, we all felt really idiotic, but we decided to go on in and stay for awhile anyway, even though we were embarrassed about the misunderstanding, and disappointed about the skating. It actually ended up not being so bad. I tried to learn the Electric Slide and some other crazy line dance, but it was useless. Mostly I sat and watched everyone else. At least I had company.

So, at least I can say that I went to a function before my college days were over. Of course, I made an idiot of myself before I even set foot on the dance floor. Ain't that a trip?

Whooping It Up

Here's a little story my brother Paul told me. It makes me laugh every time I think about it.

It was finals week at the end of one of Paul's college semesters at Baylor. He and his friends had finished their finals early, and were enjoying a relaxing time throwing a football around in the courtyard of one guy's apartment complex, killing time before they headed home for the break. Sometime, amidst all the fun, Paul's friend Jason got the hiccups.

Now, Jason didn't have what you might call ordinary-sounding hiccups. Everytime he hiccupped, it sounded like a high-pitched "WHOOP!" It was completely unnatural- and hilarious-sounding. Of course, the guys couldn't resist the opportunity to mock, and so began this bizarre exchange of lyrical soprano "whoops" that reverberated across the courtyard, along with a great deal of laughter.

At some point, a couple of girls came out of an upstairs apartment and called down to the guys. They were still studying for their finals, and asked the boys if they could keep it down a bit as the noise was disturbing them. My brother and his friends apologized profusely and promised to be quieter. Then one of the girls said, "It really wouldn't be that big of a deal if it weren't for all the whooping." Again, the boys apologized, the girls went back inside, and the courtyard erupted in hilarious (but subued, so as not to disturb) laughter.

Flatulation

This story goes way back to 7th grade. My best friend Kirsten and I were lab partners in Life Science. We were always laughing (do you see a pattern here?) Kirsten could make me laugh so hard that I would pee in my pants. In fact, I probably peed in my pants more days than not during 7th and 8th grade. You'd think I'd have invested in some Depends or something. But, I digress.

So one day, we were sitting in science class and we were bored out of our minds (as we usually were in science class). I was sitting with my elbow on the table and my chin in my hand, and eventually my head dropped such that my hand was completely covering my mouth. Not an unusual position for someone who is bored. Just then, Kirsten leaned over and said something hilarious. Now, I had gotten to be an expert at laughing silently because I did it so often. But this time as I laughed, I exhaled a large amount of air right into my hand. Unfortunately, the position of my open hand was just right so that it emitted a noise that sounded like someone tooted very loudly. But not just any ole run-of-the-mill toot. It was the biggest, longest, juiciest toot you've ever heard, and it reverberated in that room such that EVERYONE heard it.

Immediately, the teacher, Miss Rankin, looked out at the class and said indignantly, "I think someone needs to excuse themselves!" Of course, I was not about to own up to anything, particularly since that wasn't at all what it sounded like. I was highly embarrassed anyway, and was just hoping beyond hope that nobody knew from whence the sound had come. We sat in the back of the classroom, so that was in my favor. Besides, Kirsten and I were laughing so hard we couldn't have said anything even if we had wanted to. After a few moments, the teacher began this long discourse about flatulation--what causes it, how it works, etc.--and for the rest of the class period, that's what she talked about. Being a Life Science teacher (and most likely a flatulator herself), I guess she was an expert. At least it was more interesting than what we were discussing previously, so I think, in some strange way, I may have been a sort of unassuming (and rather invisible) hero. I'd like to remember it that way nevertheless.

Hairball

Because I was a psych major, I had the opportunity--no, the privilege--of taking inspiring and uplifting courses like Aging and Death. Every time I went to class, it was like going to a funeral. The professor who taught it was even nicknamed Dr. Death. I'm not sure that he had ever even cracked a smile . . . at least not before having me in his class. And then there was only the one time.

My roommate Alicia and I took Aging and Death together. We figured if we were going to have to endure something that painful, we might as well suffer together. Alicia and I seemed to almost always be lauging about something. We were about as silly as they come (I think it was a defense mechanism that kicked in automatically because we had to endure such depressing lecures). This one particular day, we were sitting in class in the middle of some gosh-awful lecture, and she was laughing about something. Alicia had this great "Muttley laugh"--you know, the kind where the only real sound that comes out is a sort of wheezing noise. Now, I have friends who have nicknamed me The Woman of a Thousand Laughs, but would you believe that a Muttley laugh is not one of them?? This has greatly distressed me, and I have often tried my hardest to manufacture one. Unfortunately, I chose that particular day to do it again.

There we were in the middle of class with Dr. Death droning on about . . . well, death . . . and right then and there I fervently attempted my Muttley laugh. I mustered up my best wheeze, and was starting to feel really proud of myself until . . .

A breathy but very loud noise escaped without warning from the depths of my throat. It was pretty much as though I had just YELLED. Right there in class. In the middle of the lecture. Naturally, all eyes were instantly on me, including those of the infamous Dr. Death himself. You could seriously have heard the proverbial pin drop. What could I do--I was laughing so hard my side was splitting, but wanting to hide under the closest rock. Luckily for me, Alicia had the presence of mind to holler out through her laughter and tears, "Hairball!!!" At that moment, the class erupted in laughter, and even Dr. Death almost chuckled. It broke the uncomfortable silence and soon after, we resumed class as usual. Perhaps that was our lot in life--Alicia and me. To help a man who lived and breathed death, to grin for just a second.