After my divorce, I found myself to be the recipient of many party invites. Wow, why have I suddenly become so popular? Let me answer for you. The reason for my sudden leap to popularity was for the simple reason that I began RSVPing to my own invites. That’s right, I repeatedly invited myself to my own personal “pity parties” where the required attire was a pink sweat shirt that read “JERSEY GIRL” and Ben & Jerry’s stained sweat pants that elastically gathered at the ankle, pathetically gripping to the last thread of their 80’s fashion dignity.
This was not the kind of party one would want to make a habit of attending, but there I was checking the “yes” box. Well, since it would be very rude to not bring something to my own party, I decided to venture out to the grocery store to buy a jar of NUTELLA®.
May I stray from my story for a moment to describe my feelings for Nutella®?
“Nutella®”…simply saying the name aloud evokes longing and produces a bucket of drool streaming down my chin. Much like Pavlov’s dogs, I begin to salivate at the thought of it on my tongue. Its rich, coffee colored, creamy texture makes it too easy to consume. Many a night I found myself armed with only a spoon, on the floor of my kitchen, lost in the moment. I begin to rehearse silently in my mind, just like “Bubba Gump,” all the ways in which I could delight in this perfect union of nuts and chocolate. While crafting my Kama Sutra recipe-text of all the different culinary positions that I imagine Nutella® is capable of, I realize that this is the closest thing to sex that I’ve seen in a while. LOL
-Nutella® & bananas
-Nutella® & apples
-Nutella® & french bread
-Nutella® & scones
-Nutella® & jelly & crepes
-Nutella® & just my fingers
NUTELLA®- How do you know when you’ve gone too far?
You’ve gone too far when: Just before bedtime, you intentionally smear Nutella® above your upper lip and beneath your nostrils allowing it to dry into a hard crusty mustache. The purpose of this mustache is to facilitate the continued subtle aroma of this special treat, thus evoking additional (never before eaten), recipes to add to my ongoing combos.
THE MORNING AFTER- The party’s over
What shakes me out of this mad sugar coma, is that it’s Mother’s Day and I realize that I’m all alone. I am trying not to lose my mind as I stumble through this painful holiday, all while coping with the fact that my son is away in rehab. The harsh reality is that I won’t be celebrating Mother’s Day with my kid. This shakes me so hard & so deep that I realize I must get my act together for my son’s sake and more importantly, mine. At that very moment my cell phone rings…and there, out of the blackness, is the sweet sound of my son saying, “Happy Mother’s Day mom, I miss you and I love you.”
Well that was all I needed. It was time to wash the confectionery mustache off my face, take off my sweatpants, put on my clean, big girl panties and take my hair out of that nasty scrunchy.
Taking a shower for the first time in three days was my first attempt at grooming myself. I begin to watch my pride trickle back ever so slightly as the soap and grime exit down the drain.
A friend of mine had told me that her 85-year-old mother was taking dance lessons at the Madison Community center and they were having an evening social. So out I went, headed towards a place where I could shield myself from the stinging visual reminders of Mothers day.
MADISON COMMUNITY CENTER-
At the time of this story, I was about 51 years of age. When I arrived, believe me when I tell you, I was the youngest person there by about 30 years.
Not only that, because it was a celebratory day for moms, all the ladies that would have been there normally, were absent. I now had what seemed like an unlimited choice from a sea of elderly male dance partners.
As I contemplated pretending to have left my cell phone in the car, so I could exit gracefully and head back to my apartment, I couldn’t help but be enticed by the tango music and the scent of cheese whiz. That’s right, a chemically osmosized cheese substance, Ritz crackers and a fruit platter from Shop-rite. Who knew there would be dancing and dining!
The teacher frantically waves me into the tango lesson and explains that every 45 minutes the lesson changes to a different dance at the discounted rate of only $10.00 per lesson. How could I say no, I love to dance! I just didn’t know how much I loved to dance until 4 hours later.
So for the next several hours, I’m dancing with a myriad of moth balled, hearing impaired, high waisted, polyester- panted gentleman who insist on speaking loudly into my ear throughout all of the lessons. I began to wonder where everyones waist line had gone. Why must they all be wearing pants tucked up under there armpits? It was like being in a school gymnasium with an aged Pee Wee Herman.
One would think this would be depressing and somewhat disturbing, but actually I was inspired and impressed by their old time knighthood. I danced every dance. With every man in that room.
There I was, a middle aged lass, juxtaposed against the very wrinkled dance frames of these chivalrous gentlemen. Kind, respectful and full of vim. It could not have been more perfect. That night I fell in love. I fell in love with dance, life and men in high waisted pants.
5 years later I’m still dancing… it’s just what I do.