Ring Dance 2011: Will you be ready?

I can feel the heat on my skin; a refreshing breeze is blowing all around me; the faint smell of coconut lingers as I soak up some rays.

You might be jealous that I'm at the beach right now, but don't worry, I'm just chillin' in a tanning booth, slowly but certainly asking to die of skin cancer.

Yes, I'm lying here in my cancer coffin wishing I were at the beach but knowing that in eight more minutes I'll awkwardly have to crawl/slide out of this weirdly shaped bed and back into my frumpy tanning clothes.

This is about the fourth time my friend and I have gone tanning in the past week.

There is nothing we hate more than being pasty, especially because our dresses are going to be white and nothing looks worse than white on white (well maybe gray on gray is worse, if white on white is a crime, gray on gray is a felony. Ask Pete, he is on my MOST WANTED list for style crimes).

After an early a.m. tanning sesh, my friend and I grab brunch. And when I say we "grab brunch," please don't fool yourself into thinking we casually just stop, enjoy some phenomenal French toast and then go home, our bellies full and our cravings satisfied.

Please. First of all, we discuss for about 10 minutes whether eating is even a good idea in the first place considering that we need to get ready for Saturday.

After the "should we or shouldn't we" conversation, the slightly chubby chick in each of us decides that we HAVE to eat immediately since it is already nearing 1 p.m. and we haven't had anything to eat since our early dinner yesterday.

We also make ourselves feel better by saying that we will go to the gym after we go home and we will eat a really late dinner. So, after deliberating WHETHER we will eat, we have to work on WHAT we will eat.

After COMPLETELY ruling out Einstein's bagels (we weren't running any marathons, no need to pack on the carbs), we finally decided on the closest diner that the Yelp application on my iPhone came up with.

Once inside, after scoping out the cute boy potential, our conversation went something like this:

Me: "I really want pancakes. They look so good. But my ass is already huge; maybe I should just get an egg white omelet instead? But, I mean, I'm already here, might as well get something I really want, right? What do you think?"

Friend (giving me a knowing look): "It's less than a week away, Gyra."

30 mins later ...

Me: "I'm kinda full, I should stop, but this omelet (that I chose because of her knowing look) is sooo good and we aren't gonna be eating again for hours."

Friend: "Just don't finish it. You're not gonna fit into your dress if you eat it all."

Me: "Look who's talking." (I say bitchily as she stuffs another bite of her omelet in her mouth).

At this point, we both proceed to stop eating our omelets, pout for about 10 minutes and then drive back to campus in silence, both already secretly thinking about all the things we're going to want to eat for dinner, but won't be able to since we got our dresses during Christmas break and can't afford to pack on any more pounds if we want to breathe while we walk down the stairs.

Following this experience, the same friend and I make up very quickly because we need to be each others' gym buddies, so we can dedicate some time to our physiques.

Post-"OK, our fight can be over" hug, we head on over to the Weinstein Center for some cardio and, more importantly, some arm toning.

"We don't want our beer girl arms jiggling on the big screen when we wave to our friends," we think to ourselves (and kind of out loud) as we finish up our 12 reps of tricep curls and whine about how we wish we had Michelle Obama-arms.

Note: I need to credit the phrase "beer girl arms" to my friend Sallie McSwain, a phenomenal gal that most of you probably already know.

During our summer abroad in Spain she made the famous comment -- "You can tell if a girl can drink a beer by her arms. If they jiggle, you know that chick is in college and can most certainly handle her beer." Thus, she coined the VERY useful phrase "beer girl arms." But, I digress.

About 45 reps and 50 minutes of cardio later we get back in the car, tired, hungry, grouchy, potentially growing cancerous moles, but phenomenally excited at how productive our day was for, yes, you guessed it, RING DANCE PREPARATION!

Alas, my fellow junior lady friends, the time is upon us. It is time for the annual Ring Dance!

The traditional ceremony is to take place this Saturday, so naturally, I have been tanning, going to the gym and not eating for days. (Well, doing my best with the not eating. That part isn't going too well).

And FINALLY I am ready.

My dress zips, my shoes have been broken in, my brother is flying in tonight to act as my date.

Yes, you laugh now, but taking my brother as my date is perhaps the best idea I've had since wearing push up bras.

A disclaimer: If you see me on Saturday, you will probably see me with my 6-foot-1-inch, ex-football player, current law student of a brother.

If you run into us and you are a single lady looking for a mature, responsible, respectful and successful gentleman, you let me know and I will be sure to drop your name in convo with him and then act surprised when I happen to run into you (after searching for you, spotting you and casually making moves in your direction).

If the sparks fly between you and my biological other, so be it. Who am I to stand in the way of fate? Not that I'll be able to stand for too long since I will not have eaten all day.

OH MY GOD -- This legit just happened: My roommate walks into the living room as I am writing, starts to unwrap a Hershey kiss, looks up, says, "I DON'T NEED TO EAT THIS FOR CRYING OUT LOUD, RING DANCE IS IN A COUPLE DAYS," re-wraps it and sticks it back into our communal Hershey kiss bowl.

Don't tell me that the ladies of 905 aren't dedicated to Ring Dance. That is nothing if not a prime example of our spirit, perseverance, resolve and determination to look our best! Can't wait to see everyone looking oh so fine at the Jefferson on Saturday!