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27 February 2008

The Underwear Dance [More:]One awakens to the sight of a blue cloth string, made by being pulled off the worn end of an old tee shirt, ending in the mouth of cat, who's unblinkingly knows the time.
It is time for The Underwear Dance.

The Underwear Dance is most preferably performed in one's least attractive underwear, but the choice of underwear is not the point. The point is to rise with seeming spontaneity and dramatic flair that chooses who leads in part one: tug of war.

This string is the leash, and as it goes, one must follow, but wait! The creature balks! She is pulling against the leash? Yes, i am! The leash leader feigns surprise. Oh, and the dance begins, like many a relationship, with the pull and push to pull of the tenuous bond between us.
It is the length of a supermodel and a hair's breadth away, a country dividing us, a communique uniting us, until yes--
Yes!
The string is mine! It has slipped your twisted grasp and it is free and floating!

Part two: much tippy toes and falling over.
Here comes the florid dramatics with much arm waving and running into other rooms and around sharp corners, with great possibility of falling over and skidding into things. Here come hindlegged pirouettes and muscle wrenching accidental asanas in the parry and thrust of it. Here be jazz hands and furious high kicks, back flips and pouncing leaps, and she does some pretty weird stuff, too, as the dance moves room to room, as we are caught in a vicious tide that throws us back and forth with whimsy. There is flailing and falling, flexing and flipping, no bonk or bump can stop the dance, no missing the beat in this chaotic rhythm. The string is the melody and we are just trying to keep it alive as it writhes from legato to pizzicato to Pizzicato Five, arabesques and Arabesque Pop, until it cannot be denied-- oh, no, part three:
Part three is the most romantic, in that it is act three, the last act, and fully aware the dance must end, even as the dance goes on...
there is a sudden drop in energy, and here enters the spectre of the end.
Oh, no! Dance harder! Dance faster!
Try as you might, you will only hasten its demise. For someone is falling over more often and waving her arms less enthusiastically, and someone kinda wants to pull on at least a shirt, because it is kinda chilly, but if done well, if done right, the dance will end in the soft landing of both partners into luxurious lolling and stretching, maybe even fond patting and touching, as one is appreciably tuckered, and the other now ready to dress.

And so it ends.
posted by ethylene 27 February | 16:30
You always make cat ownership sound so wonderful, eth.
posted by box 27 February | 16:41
Now I want a kitty cat.
posted by MonkeyButter 27 February | 16:43
It's all in how you put it.
i could talk about how she she came up to me last night and smelled poopie and how all i could do to all night was point and say, "You smell poopie!"
It is not about the cat butt the dance--
This is my 27th thing. One more and i get so say what i think about... things.
posted by ethylene 27 February | 16:50
You don't need a cat to do an underwear dance.
posted by ethylene 27 February | 16:56
I loved it! With four cats (four?!), and one of them a luxurious longhair of somewhat Maine Coon parentage, I know what "smelling poopie" means.
posted by lleachie 27 February | 16:58
One side of her always smells great, and i realized it's because she's always sleeping on something freshly laundered. The other side is invariably infused with something slightly less savory nowadays. i need a kitty breath remedy.
The problem with smelling poopie is that i'm not sure where the poopie smell went or if i'm just got extra congested--
But enough of that.


Monkeybutter and box, if i awake up there, i will do my best to encourage some form of baited back and forth. i say we use other types of string than old shirt, like chemical molecular ones, or trails of bacon.
posted by ethylene 27 February | 17:26
In honor of International Polar Bear Day, || News from my neck of the woods:

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