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But also, an indelible image: your wife as a dancehall floozy, cozying up to dollar-bill-wielding dates of female friends and unfathomably distant relatives.
Your new wife, all shiny and glistening one moment, comes off the dance floor with a dead look in her eyes. In your head, you can hear Tina Turner singing, "I'm your private dancer / A dancer for money / And any old music will do." Who is this dancer for dollars you just married? Who the fuck agreed to this?
This, apparently, is a Polish wedding tradition. Now, please don't take this as racist, as I'm sure Polish people have other traditions that wouldn't make me want to vomit. But in this singular case? Fuck the Poles*.
My wife isn't your dirty dance whore. Get your filthy hands off her. What are you, my third cousin? Back off, Hector!
Mostly I've stayed out of the wedding planning, but on this issue, I put my would-be-pimp foot firmly down.
"So, will you be doing the Dollar Dance?" the wedding DJ asked us, months in advance during our initial appointment.
"No, and what exactly are you implying!?" I shot back.
There will be no Dollar Dance at my wedding.
There may be a chicken dance, though.
But don't get any ideas. My chicken-dancing new wife isn't your dirty whore, either.
* I've since learned that the Dollar Dance is done in lots of cultures including (horrors!) Latino families, so I'll just amend my little ethnic slur by adding, "Fuck all of y'all."
Hey, look at this! Stuff to buy! Haaawwwt-Damn!
"Let's see... if I run through the mountains and live on berries and snow for the next two weeks, I could totally ditch these two."