Ang is a Space Zebra.

I thought working as a cater-waiter was the ultimate side hustle until I found out it was possible to be hired as a party dancer for the same type of high-end events I was catering.

Are you kidding me? It’s possible to get paid to party without having to wear dress pants? THIS IS THE SIDE HUSTLE DREAM.

The first event I booked as a party dancer last summer was a Bat Mitzvah in Westbury, NY. We had a brief rehearsal several days before to run through our little piece of choreography. The rehearsal space was in the Bronx, in a basement.

Ang, you really gotta stop ending up in basements.

It was during this rehearsal I learned the theme for the party was Africa/The Black Panther (film), and we would be provided with African costumes. At a party at a country club. For a Jewish girl.

I don’t wanna be the one to ask this out loud but aren’t ALL New York Jews white? Is an Africa-themed Bat Mitzvah even a thing? I mean, I love Africa don’t get me wrong. But this feels like it has the potential to be very degrading and racist. Can I ask if this is a racist party? Maybe that’s presumptuous. But it feels important to know for sure … 

I continued to be nervous about my potential criminal activity until we walked into the country club. Everything in the event space was hot pink and zebra print. There was also a mechanical bull and a live parrot.

Oh, duh. It’s a party for a 13-year old girl. It’s as if a tripped out Lisa Frank was like, “Let’s pretend we’re in the jungle.” It’s idiotic but fine.

And then the performers were escorted to a holding room area, and I got my first glimpse of our costumes. There were lots of animal prints, lots of cheap-looking materials, and a giant box of brightly colored wigs. The other girls immediately started sifting through to find their favorites. I pretended like I didn’t see the box.

Because here’s the thing about generic wigs: I HATE THEM, and it’s all because of my stint at Clowns.com. I had to wear a wig almost every day I worked, and it was always the worst because I have a gigantic head with a constantly expanding hairline and so the wigs basically looked like wild hair accessories, circa 1999. My clown-husband-of-the-day would inevitably look at me and say, “Hey, fix your wig because your hair is showing.”

I KNOW IT’S SHOWING, YOU FART FACE! IF YOU’RE NOT SATISFIED WITH HOW THE WIG LOOKS THEN YOU BE ELSA.

It doesn’t help I am incredibly vain about my hair. Its volume both helps distract from the size of my nose and provides context for my personality. Covering my hair at a party where I’m supposed to be the entertainment is a recipe for self-destruction. While the other girls found pink and blue wigs they fancied, I started subtly pulling at my curls, willing them to expand into an uncontainable monstrosity.

It was during this preventative exercise my eyes fell to a piece of paper on the table, outlining the events of the evening.

“Open the Ballroom … low-lying fog … African drummers … Family introduction … honoree carried in on a slave tray” — on a SLAVE TRAY!?!?”

I swallowed blood and metal all at once.

THIS IS THE WORST. Who is carrying her in? If it’s the African drummers I will set fire to the box of wigs and swim back to Manhattan.

Thankfully, the dancers were the ones assigned to carry her in. Specifically three pale boys, and myself. I tried not to freak out.

The Jews have that tradition of hoisting the honoree up on a chair, maybe this is like an artistic interpretation of that. It’s just a legless chair, Ang. Probably not a racist demonstration. But maybe keep your eyes focused on the floor just in case.

The tray moment couldn’t have been longer than thirty seconds but I still felt the need to boil my soul before changing into my next costume.

Even I was surprised at the lack of rhythm plaguing this entire ensemble of country club members. Most of the adults refused to enter the dance floor, and the kids flocked together to stand in a circle, excluding those unworthy of their inside jokes. One of those excluded was an awkward freckle-faced boy who stood on the sidelines lip-syncing to almost every song. My heart melted. I didn’t care if I was supposed to try to get the adults to the dance floor, I had just met my new best friend. I boogies over to him and his face lit up. We shimmied and two-stepped and vogued to songs with explicit lyrics.

I am doing the Lord’s work.

When it was time for our Black Panther dance number, I yelled, “Don’t go anywhere. I’ll be right back!” to my freckle-faced dance partner.

Man, I am loving this party!

And then I had to put this on.

Man, I am hating this party.

I decided to secure the wig with two poorly placed bobby pins in hopes of dancing my wig off and making it look like an accident. As we waited to take the floor with the honoree and posse (all dressed in animal costumes except her love interest, who was dressed in a Black Panther costume), someone did the “Wakanda forever” sign to the Love Interest. He responded by crossing his arms over his chest and pointing up to the sky, like he had just scored a touchdown at a football game, making it painfully obvious he hadn’t seen the movie or done the slightest bit of research whatsoever in preparation for tonight.

A little bit I want to punch you in your stupid face.

We performed our soul-destroying choreography and as we fanned out to encourage the audience to take to the dance floor, I seamlessly Willow-Smith-hair-whipped my wig off my head and kicked it under a nearby table. You know, like a professional.

By the time I was called to change into my last costume, it seemed like everyone still at the party was drunk. The kids were getting sloppy and the adults were getting sleepy. The energy at this already rhythmless party was seriously waning. Everyone in the dressing room was being assigned various furry animal-print leotards. I was handed a sleeveless zebra-print unitard that looked like it would barely stretch to fit over my enormous calves. Sure, I pretty much live my life in spandex, but there’s almost always a gigantic t-shirt involved and everything is solid black. I apprehensively slid into the unitard and was immediately surprised both at how comfortable it was and how perfectly it fit me.

Am I crazy or am I TOTALLY rocking this zebra unitard?

Our dresser felt a simple unitard wasn’t enough, so I was outfitted with a cape/tail (that I’m convinced was a table-runner in its previous life), a hair tie, and sparkly armbands (that strongly resembled a child’s leg warmers). Our dance captain took one look at me and said, “I like it. She’s like a Space Zebra.”

Every now and then a woman cannot be convinced she doesn’t look amazing in her outfit. Space Zebra was the pinnacle of my sexiness, and the power of my magnificence knew no bounds.

The DJ was playing line dances when I burst back into the ballroom in all my striped glory. I detest all line dances with the strong exception of The Wobble. The Wobble is basically just consecutive body rolls, but I treat it like it’s an Olympic sport. I am the Michael Phelps of wobbling. My love of wobbling combined with my boundless magnificence as Space Zebra created a perfect storm of confidence. I jumped in the center of the dance floor and wobbled like everyone was watching. They weren’t. They could barely find their own feet they were so drunk. I did notice some smirks among the exhausted wait staff that seemed to convey their entertainment at watching my academy-award-attempted performance for Biggest Fool At The Zoo.

I have only worked one other event for this company since then, and I was sent home before the DJ started playing the fun music. No regrets.