sit 'til you drop
I sat on a wooden stool. It was the type with a circular seat and four legs with some crossbeams for stability. The light, blondish wood was smooth and varnished.
While I sat on this wooden stool, a man carried the stool above his head. I have a vague sense that he was wearing a uniform. Not military but a silly, Olympic ice-skating sort of uniform. Something like lederhosen?
In fact, we were part of a whole squadron of lederhosened men carrying women on wooden stools. Some or all of the women wore lederhosen dresses. I also think these people may have comprised a college stool-dancing team. Or if not a team, a troupe a la the Tamburitzans. Not clear on whether any of them carried stools or if they all sat like me. I didn’t wear a uniform. It seemed like my function was to sit still, with decent posture, as all the stool-carriers marched across what seemed like a long distance.
Eventually we arrived at a large, thriving shopping mall. We entered an open plaza area. Large tan tiles and skylights above. Lots of twinkling white lights strung up around a fountain. Maybe for winter holidays, but nothing seemed cold or wintry.
All of the stool-carriers broke into an elaborate dance. I continued to sit, trying to shift on my seat as little as possible. I wondered how long this dance would take; I felt my endurance ebbing. Spectators laughed and clapped; mothers pointed at us and whispered in their babies’ ears.
After I don’t know how long, I felt my legs quivering and realized I wouldn’t be able to keep my balance for more than a few seconds. So I slid off the stool and landed on my feet in front of my bearer. I didn’t collapse, which I guess could have easily happened, but I never thought it would. It seemed I’d timed things well for my body at least, if not for the dance.
I apologized to the guy who had been carrying me, but he just smiled and kept dancing. Not sure whether I was the first lady to quit the stool, but it seemed like I probably wouldn’t be the last and it was an expected thing.
While I sat on this wooden stool, a man carried the stool above his head. I have a vague sense that he was wearing a uniform. Not military but a silly, Olympic ice-skating sort of uniform. Something like lederhosen?
In fact, we were part of a whole squadron of lederhosened men carrying women on wooden stools. Some or all of the women wore lederhosen dresses. I also think these people may have comprised a college stool-dancing team. Or if not a team, a troupe a la the Tamburitzans. Not clear on whether any of them carried stools or if they all sat like me. I didn’t wear a uniform. It seemed like my function was to sit still, with decent posture, as all the stool-carriers marched across what seemed like a long distance.
Eventually we arrived at a large, thriving shopping mall. We entered an open plaza area. Large tan tiles and skylights above. Lots of twinkling white lights strung up around a fountain. Maybe for winter holidays, but nothing seemed cold or wintry.
All of the stool-carriers broke into an elaborate dance. I continued to sit, trying to shift on my seat as little as possible. I wondered how long this dance would take; I felt my endurance ebbing. Spectators laughed and clapped; mothers pointed at us and whispered in their babies’ ears.
After I don’t know how long, I felt my legs quivering and realized I wouldn’t be able to keep my balance for more than a few seconds. So I slid off the stool and landed on my feet in front of my bearer. I didn’t collapse, which I guess could have easily happened, but I never thought it would. It seemed I’d timed things well for my body at least, if not for the dance.
I apologized to the guy who had been carrying me, but he just smiled and kept dancing. Not sure whether I was the first lady to quit the stool, but it seemed like I probably wouldn’t be the last and it was an expected thing.