Dear Reader,

The Best Intentions

I found out that it would be Chris’s 38th birthday.

For the last four weeks, we had been meeting at this new hip dance studio off 4th Street, replete with a spray-painted sign and sparse décor. We were a motley crew of dance students spending three hours on Saturdays and another two hours on Tuesdays to advance our salsa and bachata skills. Chris could seamlessly teach us, switching from following to leading, and working on technique and sequence. One evening out together, at a reggaeton concert, one in the groups said “I feel so old.” I proceeded to ask his age, and he said 35. Maybe the crew is not all that motley, but I have a few decades on most of them.

I secretly told the class about our teacher’s upcoming birthday, and we got to work prepping.

Morgan would make blackberry cobbler with handpicked Sedona blackberries. Zorida would bring ice cream. I was bringing streamers, rolled-up blowers (do those things have a name?), candles, a lighter, napkins & plates & forks, and a card for the group to sign. At the last minute, I noticed a bottle of Martinelli’s sparkling apple cider in my cupboard & I threw that in, along with some plastic cups.

Arriving 5 minutes before class, I quickly set out my contributions, while also changing from my stinky workout clothes & gym shoes, not forgetting to lather on an extra layer of deodorant.

My two cardinal rules before class have become teeth brushing & heavy-duty deodorant. We get quite up close and personal.

I was happy that we’d be celebrating him. Right before singing, I realized that the apple cider was not a screw top. Back in the day, I could pop a cap off with the butt of a lighter, so I tried multiple times but couldn’t even get close. Chris motioned for me to hand it to him, and with grace and ease the bottle cap came off in seconds. But that wasn’t all. Half of the syrupy contents of the bottle proceeded to erupt 3 feet into the air, for what seemed like an eternity. There was no reprieve. He tried to cover it with his hand, but it just kept coming. Into his hair, all over his shirt. I just ducked and covered. After the fizzing finally stopped, as calmly as he could, he said, “Did you shake this?”

It might appear as though this was a masterful prank that went off without a hitch. But no, I didn’t shake it; I think the issue was that it wasn’t chilled. And it certainly was not my intent for him to now teach for the next three houses with a sticky film covering his skin, hair, and clothes. What was meant to be a gift didn’t quite turn out as planned.

I would love to hear your stories; have you ever had a good intent that went awry?

Best, Julie

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