What is the fastest way to get a group of mature closer-to-thirty-than-teen girls, who are respected, hot, confident achievers, giggling like they just turned twelve?
Place them at a ballet of Russian men in toight white tights.
I couldn’t stop thinking of that scene from Top Secret, when they attend the ballet, and, well, the ballerina swans weren’t dancing on the planked stage.
As soon as the lights went on during our intermission:
-Oooo, I was loving that matador’s butt! Bravo!
-Jesus, but that man’s codpiece!
-Hey? You mean he was wearing something? Thank god. I think.
-Why is he wearing a codpiece? -Yes, it’s not like this is a contact sport.
-Are you sure about that?
My giggling fit personally set in when a male and female ballet dancer were doing a serious piece, which was meant to suggest two lovers struggling to leave each other and their bed.
My friend to my left was giggling herself into tears over the guy’s stretched-so-tight-we-think-the-tights-were-red-but-looked-more-pink, and the girl on my right giggled at the KIAAATCH décor of silver twinkling curtains.
The ballerinas fought over the bed sheet in choreographed moves, embraced, fled, came back to each other. Leap bound twirl. A bit too over sentimental.
And I could not stop thinking, the next time I have a nap-over THAT is what I am going to do! Nothing like leaving the house on a dance-off the morning after the night before!
Maybe you had to be there, but I am back to giggling. Think it might be the quickest way to ensure the guy never phones me back - a bit of pirouetting and leaping about his room as I wake up and leave!
Ah yes. Years of private schooling and we still evade “culture” like the African plebs we are.
The dance of The Dying Swan was pretty incredible though.