#2 Got That Rhythm!

Baile Rochel’s Back! #2
The 16th of Adar Bet
March 27, 2005
Got That Rhythm!
Yes, Some call me a prophet, ahead of her times. Last night I was proven right, again.

Fifteen years ago I had this brainstorm, stroke of genius, but nobody listened. You must understand that in Shiloh we have two days of Purim, requiring lots of food patchkying and eating, which somehow always ends up the responsibility of the “wife.” And even worse, the parties seem rather male chauvinistic at best. Watching a bunch of drunken men “dancing” with each other is not my idea of a good time. Actually being a spectator of almost anything is not for me. That’s the truth!

So after wracking my brain to find a way to have more fun than kneading dough by hand for an all night baking orgy, I finally thought of something… the perfect way for a Shilohdiana to enjoy Purim. Instead of another night slaving in the kitchen, or listening to hung-over hubbies kvetch or snore, that second night is the night for us to PARTY!

Well, that was my idea; only the parties didn’t happen so fast. For over ten years my fellow Shilohdianas found other things to do on that second Purim Night, but as more and more found their nests emptying and figured if the little chickadees could fly, why should imma be grounded? The stage was set for a revolution, and the “Second Night of Purim Party for Females” finally took off.

A couple of years ago I finally went to a party on the rainiest Purim night imaginable. I’ll never forget it, because my cell phone drowned, soaked in the pocket of my plastic raincoat. But those unpleasant memories didn’t stop me last night at the “I should be getting ready for bed” hour of ten. I called to my husband: “I’ll be home by eleven, no matter what.” Then I gingerly dragged myself out the door, down the street and around the corner to the “moadon,” social-hall shelter. As I expected, even though it was already ten minutes after the official “starting time” the decorations not only weren’t up, but they weren’t quite planned. And I found myself hiking up my skirt to climb onto chairs, trying to drape fabric into the ceiling panels. But I had said that I’d stay until eleven, and I did my best to enjoy the experience. It’s Purim, be happy.

Also, I had to impress my former students, of the sporty female variety, with my eternal fitness, so I smiled broadly and had the music turned up, so nobody could hear my grunts. Nothing like teamwork, and the room was ready for fun. We started to dance, but really, the music was a drag, and without the right music, I’m just a middle-aged lump. A young “barrel of laughs” called out “How about 60’s music?” and I was out the door dashing home, like FloJo in her prime, for a couple of “Best of…” cd’s.

Only two of us knew all the words, “Runaway” to “Surf City,” then “Let’s Twist Again” though we may suffer tomorrow. But the true show stopper was our dramatic rendition of “Leader of the Pack.” We raced our motorcycles, then mortally wounded, simultaneously mourning the loss of our true love, by miming both roles and singing at the top of our lungs, of course. The music of our youth made us feel like fifteen again.

After playing some perfectly Purim games, we finally warmed up for the highlight of the evening—a class in belly dancing. And if you’re wondering, eleven was long gone, and we were on the wrong side of midnight. As our graceful instructor put us through the warm-ups, the crowd lightened, and by the time we were thrusting chests and buttocks, only mothers were left in the room. The sweet naïve, singles had disappeared.

I had better finish this quickly, before sore muscles set in. Or maybe, “Let’s Dance!”
Baile RochelCopyright©2005BatyaMedad, Contact me for publication permission; private distribution encouraged.