The Church Lady.
In other news, I went to a church-sponsored dance last Friday night at UVSC. Mormon standards are observed strictly at any church function, but this particular dance astounded even me... and I'm a lifetime resident of Utah Valley and a Mormon.
I walked through the doors behind Abby and Courtney, wearing jeans and a pale pink American Eagle T-shirt. I hadn't tried too hard. I'm not a dancer... really sort of a wallflower when it comes to these kinds of things.
I felt a tug on the hem of my shirt as I entered the foyer. I whipped around, quite ready to belt Stretch (oh, yes, that's his professional name), who was standing behind me. We all know how I am about strange boys. Instead, a very mild-looking woman--a chaperon-- paused me and smiled at me thinly.
"We don't want to see any belly buttons!" she said in a bright, insincere tone. Her eyes were like a cheap hotel bed; flat, cold, and hard. I looked down.
I am extremely self-conscious about my modesty and the maintaining thereof. This is a problem, because jeans are lower and shirts are shorter. Girls of average height may be able to pull this off and still look decent by Mormon standards; I am the owner of approximately six feet in height, and therefore an extremely long torso. Cotton shrinks. It's a fact of life. There was, however, no belly button in sight. I certainly would have noticed it. I stared at her.
"I'm six feet tall," I said, affecting my best 'goodness-gracious-who-me?' voice. "It's long enough." With my arms down, it covered the top button of my jeans. If I had waltzed in the door with my arms above my head like a heathen, I would have understood. But I didn't, and I planned no monkeylike activity that involved raising my arms above elbow level. (I said I didn't dance.)
"Aren't you lucky to have such long ballerina legs?" she simpered, still with that pinched look around her mouth. "You just be careful. We don't want those boys seeing more than they should!"
"She's twenty," Abby said in a saccharine tone, taking my arm. "She knows."
"That was so not 'feed my sheep,'" observed Courtney as we walked in. "That was like... 'watch my sheep like a harpy and then swoop on their minor mistakes, quick now.'"
Things might have been just fine as the night wore on and my disbelief faded... until I was standing at the edge of the dance floor, watching an amazing swing-dancing couple. The girl was tiny, easy to lift, and they were showing off their skills. We were laughing and clapping and enjoying ourselves; the boy hitched the girl high into the air, then allowed her down, where she briefly wrapped her legs around his waist in another stunt.
A whistle blew.
A whistle? A chaperon's whistle?
I spent the rest of the night in the foyer talking to Rody.
I walked through the doors behind Abby and Courtney, wearing jeans and a pale pink American Eagle T-shirt. I hadn't tried too hard. I'm not a dancer... really sort of a wallflower when it comes to these kinds of things.
I felt a tug on the hem of my shirt as I entered the foyer. I whipped around, quite ready to belt Stretch (oh, yes, that's his professional name), who was standing behind me. We all know how I am about strange boys. Instead, a very mild-looking woman--a chaperon-- paused me and smiled at me thinly.
"We don't want to see any belly buttons!" she said in a bright, insincere tone. Her eyes were like a cheap hotel bed; flat, cold, and hard. I looked down.
I am extremely self-conscious about my modesty and the maintaining thereof. This is a problem, because jeans are lower and shirts are shorter. Girls of average height may be able to pull this off and still look decent by Mormon standards; I am the owner of approximately six feet in height, and therefore an extremely long torso. Cotton shrinks. It's a fact of life. There was, however, no belly button in sight. I certainly would have noticed it. I stared at her.
"I'm six feet tall," I said, affecting my best 'goodness-gracious-who-me?' voice. "It's long enough." With my arms down, it covered the top button of my jeans. If I had waltzed in the door with my arms above my head like a heathen, I would have understood. But I didn't, and I planned no monkeylike activity that involved raising my arms above elbow level. (I said I didn't dance.)
"Aren't you lucky to have such long ballerina legs?" she simpered, still with that pinched look around her mouth. "You just be careful. We don't want those boys seeing more than they should!"
"She's twenty," Abby said in a saccharine tone, taking my arm. "She knows."
"That was so not 'feed my sheep,'" observed Courtney as we walked in. "That was like... 'watch my sheep like a harpy and then swoop on their minor mistakes, quick now.'"
Things might have been just fine as the night wore on and my disbelief faded... until I was standing at the edge of the dance floor, watching an amazing swing-dancing couple. The girl was tiny, easy to lift, and they were showing off their skills. We were laughing and clapping and enjoying ourselves; the boy hitched the girl high into the air, then allowed her down, where she briefly wrapped her legs around his waist in another stunt.
A whistle blew.
A whistle? A chaperon's whistle?
I spent the rest of the night in the foyer talking to Rody.
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