To bee or not to bee...Felicia didn't really give me a choice

I'm a helper, by nature, so when my beloved friend Felicia needed a person to man a station for a wine tasting tour she was organizing for a bachelorette party, I was all in. I believe that my exact words were:

"Ugh...fine. What do I have to do?"

First on the agenda was to come up with a cider-themed name for my station. No problem. After some thought, I texted Felicia:

"You know what you call an apple with gas?
A TOOTIE-FRUITIE!"

So cute!

Sadly, Felicia was looking to go in a different direction:

"I'm gonna need your jokes to go from G to X-rated by next Saturday," she texted.

I'm ashamed to admit that this was a rather simple transition for me. I refuse to show you the very sophisticated sign that adorned my station because I am a lady and I respect you too much to pollute your wholesome spirit with such filth.

Next on the list was choosing a theme song. Well! That was a no-brainer. I immediately launched into that good ol' Sunday School favorite celebrating Johnny Appleseed: "Oh the Lord is good to me...and so I thank the Lord..." Tapping her foot impatiently along while waiting for me to conclude my enthusiastic chorus, Felicia gently suggested something a bit edgier. "About apples?" I said and then we were struck at the same time, growling out Flo Rida's club song, made popular by so many middle school dances. Done.

As the day loomed closer, I began to fret...worried that I wasn't woman enough for the job. "You should have asked Sarah," I pointed out, "She has an outfit for all occasions. She probably has the costume worn by the Fruit of the Loom guy. Or, at the very least, an apple print dress and hat." Felicia reassured me. "You're going to be fine. I believe in you." She dropped me off at my house as I mulled her words. She believes in me. Believes. Bee. WAIT! I have a twenty dollar bee costume that I vowed to wear twenty times so as to get my (friend Rachel's) moneys worth out of it. Bees pollinate apples! Perfect!

NOT so perfect on the day of the event when I realized that I would be wrapped in polyester and foam on an 85 degree afternoon, dancing on a dock before a busy lake, while spewing the raunchiest words known to mankind. As I sat there, sweating, while trying to appear inconspicuous, I really had time to think about my life choices. Well...not too much time. Felicia texted that the pontoon was on its way to my station. I could hear the rumble of the motor and the roar of laughter as the boat approached. I cued up my song and gyrated my way to the end of the dock. At fifty, I normally have trouble attaining the song's prerequisite "low...low...low...low...low...low...low...low" but my adrenaline was pumping. I tossed in a twerk and playfully spanked myself for good measure. The appreciative crowd went wild.

Oh.

Wrong crowd.

These were not my people.

They cheered, demanding an encore while, with flaming face, I waved good-naturedly with my muppet-mitten hand and debated drowning myself in the two feet of water beneath the dock.

Another pontoon boat approached but I'd been stung before so I cautiously edged my way along the length of the pier. It was still difficult to miss me...I WAS dressed like a giant bee, after all...but at least this time, I refrained from gyrating.

Good call. STILL not my boat.

Turns out...third time is the charm. And shame on me for not knowing because this boat was the LOUDEST on the lake.

Cue music. Gyrations. Twerking (Yes...the costume included a stinger). I managed to go "low...low...low...low" and STILL get up. My target boat went insane. So far so good.

We docked the pontoon boat and I got ready to launch into my rehearsed raunchy monologue of filth. Problem #1: All of the passengers needed a potty break. "Hold that thought," Felicia said, walking her weaving and wobbling women to the restroom. Problem #2: The pontoon boat was being piloted by a former 6th grade student (long since graduated), the brother of the bride. Oh brother, is right. I don't say crap in the classroom. Literally. My verbiage as an educator swings between strictly professional and preschool. My salty speech was not intended for this particular audience. So, as I became re-acquainted with this protege from my past (You didn't forget I was dressed like a bee, did you?), my ladies trickled back in during this unplanned intermission.

Felicia got everybody settled so I could begin (again). Imagine if Lincoln got interrupted at the start
of the Gettysburg Address...I'm sure that would have messed up his mojo, too. I hosted a quick trivia game with different-flavored shots as the prizes. Wonderful. Not surprisingly, my student won one of the rounds. He was always very bright. His flavor? Slippery Nipple. So proud of him. Now that's a product of good teaching.

How was it that I was the only one traumatized by this event?

It was time for the next station...thank goodness! I gave the bridal party barge a big muppet-mitten send-off and then faced the solitary walk of shame, back to my truck, dressed like a disheveled bee. I climbed out of my polyester/foam costume to scratch at the red, itchy blotches that decorated my arms, neck, and chest. Figures, I muttered as I got ready to drive home, that dressing like a bee would give me hives.