In Which I Rehearse

I thought I was nervous before.

Guys. I actually thought for a minute I might throw up on stage.

(I'm fine.)

Rehearsal was scary. Thank goodness I was armed with my very Greek father, my snarky mother, and my trusty boy-shape.

(Oh, and my shoes that I didn't know I was supposed to take until five minutes before I left the house.)

I was the first debutante to arrive at the church. We were approximately ten minutes early, and thusly sat in the hall, waiting. They verified my name in the program, my middle name, my post-high school plans and then left me alone. Zach and I mostly nervous-giggled for 25 minutes while we waited for everything to get started. We talked about who the okay people are and how he may very possibly be the only non-Greek escort (spoiler alert - he's NOT!).

Except then the debs were called up on stage. And they wanted us to have our shoes on. Guess whose shoes were still in the box? #fail

So I quickly had to try to get these really complicated and stubborn silver sparkley stilettos on with my jeggings. I employed the help of my mother, who basically can't see anyway, so the fact that the room was dark and Zach was hissing at me that I was the only deb not on stage was not helping matters. Then I got yelled at by our emcee. #fail

I quickly and dangerously teetered up the stairs, up the runway, and to the stage without incident. They arranged us on the stage and we all stood awkwardly in an arched shape waiting for further direction.

I should preface this part by saying that I recently discovered my escort is Facebook friends with one of the other debutantes. He attended a leadership conference with her and said she was a skanky bitch. ALWAYS GOOD NEWS.

Suddenly, someone started talking about underwear:
"I'm afraid if I fall, people will be able to see my underwear. So I got these nice, white, Spanx kind of thing to go under my dress."
And then the girl Zach knew said, "Wait, you guys are wearing underwear?"
We were quiet for a second before someone said, "Are you not going to?"
And then she said, "Oh. Probably not. I just never wear underwear."

It was the classiest thing I've ever heard.

I am the third of eight girls to be presented, simply because my last name starts with a C. Thank goodness. But as it came time for me to actually walk, I got freakishly nervous. I convinced myself I was going to fall, and in all likelihood, would take Zach down with me, even though he's on the floor and I'm on the runway. Literally. Runway.

We are to walk forward, stop, grab our escort's hand, and dismount onto what I will lovingly refer to as The Fear Factor step. It is the most frightening drop, in heels. Then we are to walk slowly down the runway, pause at the end, turn and walk slowly to the left, curtsy, turn and walk slowly to the right, curtsy, walk slowly back to the center, pause for a photograph, then again take the hand of our escort and descend the three stairs off the runway. Then I am to pause, linked arm with my escort for another damn picture, walk forward to my parents, kiss my father on the cheek, link arms with him while Zachary and my mother assemble behind us for yet another DAMN PHOTOGRAPH. And then the presentation is over.

The whole thing must not take any more than two minutes per girl. But it is so nerve-wracking. Especially after we were told to remember that there will be "up to three photographers on the floor wanting to take our pictures and will all have BIG-ASS FLASHES."

After we ran through the presentation once, we started the process over again. I was slightly less nervous the second time around after having practiced it once and been told it was okay to rely on my escort for strength. Zach was even commended for his escorting abilities. I was proud.

AND I WASN'T EVEN THE MOST AWKWARD ONE UP THERE! All they told me was to slow down a few times. One girl bopped all the way down the runway and had a little bounce in her step and bopped her hair head back and forth and bopped instead of curtsied. She was scolded, and then the photographer commented that "they just don't make debs like they used to."

After we ran through the presentation the second time, it was time to practice dancing. I don't Greek dance. Zach and I attempted to plan an escape route (if you're curious, we plan to stop after I dismount the runway and dash for the nearest doorway). My mom and I somehow managed to convince Zach that there's such a thing as an Escort Goat Dance, which involves, well, a goat. It's not real.

Anyway, back to how I don't Greek dance...

NO ONE EVER OFFERED TO TEACH ME. That is my excuse. And, for the record, what kind of hell-dance has 12 steps to it? Why 12? Why?

Needless to say, I can't do it. I'm uncoordinated and ungraceful as it is, so when I have to lead a small pack of girls in a dance I don't know, it's going to be bad. I also tend to swear under my breath when I screw up dance steps. (Ahem, Jess.)

Luckily, my dress is very long and you can't see my feet, so we should be okay as long as I can fake it.

After dancing in a circle eight times to a 12-step dance I can't do, it was finally time to go.

So I suppose it could have been worse. But it was just full of awkward moments. Like...

...that awkward moment when you're the only debutante going to college out of state.
...that awkward moment when your escort informs you the boys were having a farting contest.
...that awkward moment when you don't have your shoes on.
...that awkward moment when you're the only debutante who thinks you're funny.
...that awkward moment when you convince your escort there's really a goat dance.
...that awkward moment when you discover the crazy lesbian photographer isn't actually a lesbian.
...that awkward moment when you're the only debutante on one side of the stage.
...that awkward moment when you're the debutante no one else talks to.
...that awkward moment when you're totally not into what's going on but somehow manage to make it look like you are anyway.
...that awkward moment when your hands have a stick residue after holding hands while Greek dancing (wtf?).
...that awkward moment when no one ever taught you the Greek dance.
...that awkward moment when you look like an idiot.
...and that awkward moment when if you prayed, you would.