Day 300: Belly Shakes

Day 300. A truly momentous day! Or at least, like Days 100 and 200, one that I thought would be full of big activity. There was absolutely no reason why it shouldn't have been, since Day 300 fell on a Saturday; even work couldn't get in the way.

I begged for help with this day, trying to organize a white water rafting trip or a hang gliding excursion. But I couldn't get any takers. My friends either had plans, weren't interested in any of those activities, or were, by Day 300, over the blog and helping me try new things. Increasingly aware that I'd be solo on the big day, I asked for suggestions from you, the blog readers.

There were some good ones: flotation therapy (unfortunately NOT available in Atlanta), pre-qualify for a home loan (I'd actually done this before), write 5 blogs in one day (that coming from my mother, who was desperate for me to catch up on writing), sing to a nursing home (great idea, if I was a good singer, but as we all saw on Day 242, I am not, so singing just seemed cruel to the old folks).

I went rogue, ignored everyone's suggestions, and went out on my own. Day 300's thing I've never done before was to take a belly dancing class.

Once I had a plan, (a less expensive, not very much commitment involved plan), I asked others to come along, but for various reasons no one was able to. All of their excuses seemed believable, but I had to wonder if they chose not to come because belly dancing sounded weird and not at all how anyone wanted to spend their Saturday. Regardless, I was on my own.

I headed over to the Nazeem Allayl Bellydance Studio in Little 5 Points, stopping first at Chevron to pick up a bottle of water. I wasn't really expecting the class to be terribly strenuous, but I decided it better to be safe than sorry. And I was thirsty.

When I took my water to the counter to purchase, the guy behind the counter paid me a compliment.

"I love your hair," he said.

I was looking down at my money when he said it, but since I'd already noticed I was the only one in the store, I assumed he was talking to me. When I looked up to say, "Thanks," I saw that his hair was exactly the same color as mine.

I smiled, and thanked him.

"You know in another 40 years we're going to be extinct," he said, as if that was information I probably already knew.

"I'm sorry?," I said, still fumbling with my change, and now feeling terribly confused and kind of creeped out.

He went on to explain that when he said, "we," he meant, "redheads," and he referenced an article that he read explaining that scientists had proven that the redhead gene was dying out. Less than two percent of the world's population has red hair right now, and in less than 100 years, we will cease to exist.

This was a lot of information at 10am. This was a lot of information, period. And though I appreciated the trivia, I couldn't fake caring about possible redhead extinction despite the clear evidence that this news was obviously upsetting him. I simply nodded and smiled as he kept going on about what a crying shame it would be if gingers like us weren't around anymore. He even showed me pictures of his kids, as if to say, "I'm doing my part!"; one was a brunette, the other, a redhead. Both kids were cute, but I found myself drawn to the brunette, only because I wasn't confident that his dad loved him as much as he did the redheaded child.

Then, when he could tell I was ready to leave, he gave me a wink and said, "So, you and I need to get out there and make some babies."

Though I'm pretty sure he didn't mean he wanted us to make babies with each other, this guy had taken this conversation one sentence too far. I grabbed my water and said the first thing that came to me.

"You got it!," I said, as if I was on my way out the door to procreate with the first person I could find.

I don't know why I said that. Since then, I thought of all the things I could've said at that moment, and though, "You got it!" was a strange response, nothing quite seems appropriate when a complete stranger has urged me to make babies to keep my hair color going.

Later that day, I did some research. Remarkably, the Chevron guy was not completely crazy. There was a National Geographic article written by scientists who said gingers could be gone by year 2060. But another article written a month later by a different group of scientists that said it wasn't true. I'll be 80 in 2060, and I'll be sure to let you know how it turns out.

After thanking him for the water, and the strange information, I hurried out the door and headed to the belly dancing class.

I parked my car and entered the studio, paying just $10 for the class. I noticed that everyone there was either barefoot or wearing socks, so I slipped off my shoes and put them in one of the cubbies on the wall, and secured a place to stand in the back.

The teacher was petite, and she had super long dark hair. Her pants were long and flowy and swung when she walked. She was extremely nice, and had a pleasant, but strange look on her face. Almost like she was stoned or something. I realize the phrase, "head in the clouds," is just a figure of speech, but it was as if her head was literally in the clouds.

She wore a short, tight t-shirt that showed her stomach, which was not the washboard, flat stomach I've seen on other fitness instructors. Belly dancing, I later read, is all about accepting the curves of a woman's body; judging by the pictures on the wall and the movements we learned, there is a sensuality involved that exists regardless of the dancer's size. Unfortunately, I never achieved this sensuality, but I had a hell of a time trying.

The instructor climbed up on a box in the front of the room and put some music on and we began the warm up. I used the time as an opportunity to take a look at the other students in the class and I could immediately tell which ones had taken these classes before. They were the ones wearing the super annoying coins around their waists that jingled and jangled with every single move that they made. You know how babies learning how to walk have little bells on their shoes and it's so cute? Well this was kind of like that, only on grown women trying to get their groove back. Eventually I got used to the constant sound of loose change, but it was a lot to take at first.

I've seen some revealing dance wear in my day, but there was one woman wearing one of the oddest ensembles I'd ever seen. She was herself a strange-looking person, with bright red lipstick and short black spiky hair. Her outfit was a one piece cat suit with tight chiffon sleeves and a chiffon back that dipped so low, when her coin skirt that she had tied around her waist fell off (which was often), I could see the top of her butt crack. I tried not to look, but how was I not supposed to look at that?

This woman's crack was distracting, but more distracting than that for me was that the moves never quite went with the music that was playing. I don't know if that was my teacher screwing up, or if she viewed music as simply background noise or if belly dancing doesn't require listening to music at all, but it really bothered me that our moves were almost never on beat.

After completing the warm up, we moved on to a series of belly dancing moves. For the most part, my feet stayed planted on the floor in first position (heels together, toes apart) and required only movement from my waist. Aside from a few step touches, and toe taps (still moving the belly) that was it. The class was like one continuous body roll.

There were times when just the repetition of the movement was tiring and therefore challenging, but I barely broke a sweat in the class and didn't really even feel like I raised my heart rate all that much. I don't know if that is standard for belly dancing, or if my stoned teacher was just unaware.

The one time she told us to shake our legs and stomachs uncontrollably, she shouted, "You want everything to jiggle!"

I paused for a moment looking around at my classmates to see if they were as alarmed by these words as I was.

I couldn't help but think to myself, "Noooooooooooooo, I don't waaaaaaaaaant anything to jiggle! That's why I'm here! To make the stuff that jiggles stop jiggling!"

The class ended the same way I would imagine all belly dancing classes to end: with doing football drills and Soul Train lines from side of the room to the other with Boyz II Men's, "Motown Philly" blaring through the speakers.

I left feeling pretty proud of myself for going solo, pretty sure that I'm going to leave belly dancing to the professionals, and really sorry that I didn't ask anyone to take my picture while I was there.

Later that afternoon, I went to my friend Greg's son's 2nd birthday party. I knew it would be a fun time and a good chance to catch up with friends I had not seen in a while. I did not know that there was going to be a jump castle there, and Jessica (Greg's wife) didn't know, when she paid for it, that none of the children would be interested in it at all. The nice, generous friend that I am, wanting to see Greg and Jessica get their money's worth, I climbed inside and took a turn. My friend Karen joined me. And soon Jessica did too. And thanks to an afternoon summer thunderstorm, the jump castle was more like a slip and slide. We definitely weren't showing our "sensual" side like I had tried to do earlier in belly dancing class, but jump castles are so much more fun. So are child's birthday parties with cake and beer (and barbecue made on a Green Egg with homemade sauce.)

I also had fun touring Greg and Jessica's new mini-van. That's right, I said, "mini-van." And that's my friends Greg and Jessica who own one. I've long accepted that we are not kids anymore, and my friends having kids of their own doesn't freak me out at all the way it used to. But family cars? That's a new one for me. And it does slightly freak me out.

Day 300 didn't set out to be a terribly momentous day, but when I think about all that happened and all I learned, I can't help but be overwhelmed: i found out redheads are going extinct, I saw some girl's butt crack, I hate belly dancing but jump castles rule, and my friend Greg owns a mini-van.

What a weird day.

Day 251: You Can Wear it Again

I have been a bridesmaid 12 times.

That means that in my adult life, I've thrown at least 12 showers, walked down 12 aisles, and yes, I own 11 bridesmaid's dresses (11 because Danielle told me to wear whatever I wanted.)

I get teased relentlessly at work for having participated in, and attended, so many nuptials, and I am often the go-to girl for any wedding related questions.

"Don't you get sick of going to weddings?," I am often asked. Nope. I really don't. I still genuinely love them, and am actually quite sad that since most of my really close friends have already gotten hitched, my days of "bridesmaiding" are numbered.

"How much money have you spent over the years on all of these weddings?," they all want to know. Truthfully, I have no idea, and I'd really rather not think about it. I'm sure it's obscene, but I'm also confident that it was money well spent.

My favorite question, though, "Where do you keep all of the dresses from the weddings you've been in?" Most are hanging in my coat closet. Some are at my parents' house and a couple have been misplaced (probably during a really fun wedding weekend) and were never spoken of again.

For the most part, the bridesmaids dress routine is the same five-step process every time: buy dress, alter dress, wear dress, dry clean dress, never look at dress again.

Since most of the brides I've walked down the aisle for have also been in their fair share of weddings, I have fortunately been spared the promise that their bridesmaid's dress choice will be the one that I can, and will, "totally wear again." My friends know that the likelihood of that ever happening is slim, because they have a closet full of never-to-be-worn-again bridesmaids dresses as well. So our conversations about the chosen wedding attire is much more direct, almost business like.

"Here is what I chose. No, you'll never wear it again. This is how much you owe."

Luckily my friends have excellent taste, and while the back of my closet compares slightly to Katherine Heigl's in the film, 27 Dresses, it does so in volume only, not in the ridiculous get ups her character was forced to wear. I've never truly hated anything that I was asked to wear, and even the dresses I questioned at first looked pretty good in pictures.

In two of the more recent weddings I'd been in, the dresses came directly from the pages of J.Crew magazine, making them perfectly acceptable frocks for something other than their initial purpose. But for whatever reason, I'd yet to overcome the fact that while it may look like a simple cocktail dress to everyone else, to me, it would always be Emily's bridesmaid's dress, or the dress I wore in my brother's wedding.

Until Dan and Karen's big day, I'd never worn any of these dresses again, but that's exactly what I intended to do as Day 251's thing I'd never done before.

The time had come for a bridesmaids dress redo.

I immediately narrowed down the choice to two possibilities, Emily's or Katie's. Both J. Crew, both brown (and therefore easy to accessorize), both had pockets (the greatest addition to a dress ever). Emily's dress was strapless and more of a satin material. Katie's was a halter-style, and a heavy linen.

Katie and I spoke on Friday over the phone and I told her my plan. She said she thought it was a great idea and was flattered that the dress I wore in her wedding was in the running for the dress I might wear to pull the challenge off. Then we discussed why re-wearing a perfectly normal looking bridesmaids dress is such a difficult thing to do.

"I feel about it the same way I think about turning 30," I told her. "I don't mind doing it, I just don't want anyone else to know."

The trick then to pulling off the redo was to change the look of the dress completely to make it more evening friendly and less "bridesmaidy."

On Saturday I went to a jewelry boutique in search of bold colors or big gemstones (or both) to achieve this tall order.

I told the ladies at Just the Thing what I was trying to achieve and they went to work immediately in search of something to turn an old bridesmaids dress into something special. I left an hour later with an enormous necklace, a cuff bracelet and a pair of earrings. I had no idea which of the three I'd wear, but they all matched each other, and I knew they'd match either Emily's dress or Katie's dress.

When I got home, I spent at least half an hour pairing different shoes and different accessories with each of the dresses. In the end, Emily's dress was the one I chose to wear a second time, with the necklace, bracelet, and a pair of bright orange shoes.

The outfit may have been a little loud, but there was no denying it did not look like a bridesmaids dress anymore.

"Wow," my friend Billy said as we were taking our seats for the wedding, "That is quite a necklace."

"Thanks," I said, touching the new purchase on my neck, ignoring the fact that what he said was likely not a compliment.

Another man commented on my outfit while I was standing in line for food.

"I just love what you're doing here," he said motioning with his hand at my ensemble. I smiled and thanked him. And then I looked at his wife and considered asking her if she was aware that her husband might be gay.

I received several other compliments and I could not help but feel that this was a great idea--a fiscally responsible decision and a creative masterpiece, if I do say so myself. Not one person asked if I was wearing a recycled bridesmaids dress, which makes me think that maybe it's time I cleaned out my closet and to give these dresses I've bought and worn only once a chance at a second life.

Probably what would best accompany a blog about an outfit that I wore would be a picture of me wearing the outfit, right? Well, yes, except genius over here completely forgot to take one, so I was forced to rip the only pictures I do have from my friend Billy, and also the wedding photographer.

Kudos to me for staying out of the photographer's line of fire, something that in the 60+ weddings I've attended, I've never been able to do. But stupid of me to not illustrate how a bridesmaids dress redo is completely doable. Hopefully you'll get the point by the pictures I do have. If not, you'll just have to take my word for it.

Day 250: The Tominator

On Day 250, my friends Dan and Karen generously invited me to their rehearsal dinner the night before their wedding.

What made this evening so special for me was not the high school reunion that it became for me, since a lot of my oldest friends made the trip from South Carolina for the wedding, or that Dan and I have known each other since elementary school and here we were, 20 years later on the eve of his big day.

Yeah, all of that stuff was great, but what made this evening particularly special was that the dinner was catered by Fox Brothers Barbecue, which is quite possibly the best idea for a rehearsal dinner ever.

Fox Brothers Barbecue is an Atlanta favorite, usually ranked pretty highly on lists of great places to eat in the city, and certainly on the "best of" lists for barbecue. It's also one of Dan and Karen's restaurants. In fact, they told me later that choosing the menu for the rehearsal dinner was one of the easiest wedding decisions that they made.

Among the rehearsal dinner offerings: pulled pork, spare ribs, macaroni and cheese, green beans, and the Tominator.

If the Tominator sounds aggressive, it’s because it is: a heap of tater tots, covered in melted cheese and Brunswick stew.

I was so excited to see that Karen and Dan decided to choose the Tominator for their menu, because despite having been to the restaurant several times, this glorious concoction is one of the few Fox Brothers' specialties that I hadn't tried. No surprise then, that eating it for the first time became Day 250's thing I'd never done before.

Merely writing these ingredients evokes several statements, exclamations even, from me, and I’m sure it does you too.

“Yessssssssssss! What an awesome idea!” (I know!)

“Ugh, that sounds like too much of a good thing.” (There is no such thing as too much goodness, especially where tater tots are concerned.)

“Why didn’t we come up with that? When can I try it?” (I don’t know, because we’re idiots. Whenever you want, I’m always game.)

“Damn, I wish I lived in Atlanta.” (I completely understand; come and visit me and I’ll take you there.)

I scooped some of the Tominator onto my plate, and had to chuckle that I was scooping it from a perfectly refined sterling silver chafing dish, as if to say, “We may increase our chances of clogged arteries, but dammit we will do so with a little bit of dignity and class.”

When I took a bite of what was the equivalent of the best damn tater tot casserole ever, I found it to be every bit as wonderful as you might expect.

I couldn't eat a lot of it, but the portion that I tried was enough for me to fully understand the culinary genius of the Fox Brothers. The only reason I didn't dive head first into the chafing dish to finish off every last bit of the Tominator is because I was wearing white pants. Plus I knew if I ate too much I'd have to take a nap, and there was still lots of post-rehearsal dinner fun to be had (including me running through the streets of Decatur without shoes on.)

A frequent wedding attendee, I have, over the years, found that a direct correlation between tasty wedding food and successful marriages does exist.

Good food = long, happy marriage

Bad food, not enough food or places to sit = questionable

If the same is true here, then Dan and Karen, I’m going to predict a happy, everlasting marriage for you both. Because nothing says “lifetime of happiness” quite like the Tominator does.