When is procrastinating a good thing? I’ll tell you when procrastinating is a good thing. When his name is Mr. Mikhail Baryshnikov.
Procrastinating happens. It happens but it never feels good and it never gets any easier.
I was in motion; working, biking, conversing, but what I had to get done, truly done, was not getting done.
I had sent files to an embroidery and printing store Tuesday morning, only to be told that they weren’t the correct resolution. I spent the next three days, talking to friends, emailing Photoshop, and watching CNN, but nothing transferred those files to a higher resolution.
The printer was only ten blocks from my apartment. It would’ve made sense to walk over on Wednesday, and deal with it in person. In all fairness, though, six of those blocks were of the long variety, and super ass annoying. Can blocks be annoying?
The timing never seemed right; I was either teaching, or Pole-ing. I had lunch dates, dinner dates, and The Voice. Or just maybe I was making excuses, or er, procrastinating. By Friday, I was beyond fed up with myself and CNN, so I took the walk.
I had been in the store not three minutes, when he walked in; wearing a long black distressed leather coat, a black Fedora, and that infamous boyish grin. Mr. ‘White Nights’ himself, Mikhail Baryshnikov.
There are celebrities and then there are, well, others. These others have impacted our lives in ways that is almost indescribable. Indelible. Misha is one of those others.
Watching Baryshnikov on stage, (Baryshnikov on Broadway thank you) equally at ease pirouetting, step ball changing or pop and locking, made me want to dance. His strength, grace, and sheer powerful was a sight to behold.
I saw him dance in a stage production while no longer in his prime, and he still took my breath away.
I was interning at Columbia Pictures when the movie, White Nights came out, and I remember going back to my dorm room with several posters in hand, ready to wallpaper my room with them.
Around this time, my father was dabbling in the restaurant business and was a partner in a place called, Columbus. It was an immediate hit and a popular celeb hangout. It didn’t hurt that De Niro and Baryshnikov were also partners. Oh, sorry, let me pick up those names that I inadvertently dropped.
Mr. Baryshnikov, now 66, walked in, all 5’6 (more like 5’4 now) of him and I became a giddy school girl. I looked down to see if he was wearing his leg warmers. He wasn’t. I held my breath, hoping that he would ask the salesperson a question, so I could hear his sexy Russian voice.
Misha knew exactly what he needed and made a beeline for the boxes of buttons, stacked on shelves against a wall. This shelf happened to be directly behind where I was standing. I am not exaggerating when I say that our tight Pilates (I’m guessing that he practices Pilates) asses were practically touching.
I remained calm, and went about my business, but I did not lose sight of Misha and his frantic search for a button. Was it for a costume for a new show perhaps? Had he found the meditative benefits of arts and crafts?
I finished my business, which took all of five minutes. For a moment, I chastised myself for wasting three days and not coming to the store sooner, but then I looked at Misha and knew that if I hadn’t procrastinated, then we wouldn’t be sharing this moment.
Of course I lingered, I’m a warm blooded woman.
I texted the Girlfriend Mom daughter (because I’m a giddy schoolgirl) to tell her whose ass was next to mine because she and I were recently talking about Misha’s guest starring role as Aleksandr Petrovsky, on Sex And The City. I did have to school her when she innocently admitted that she didn’t know who Baryshnikov was.
She immediately texted back that I should say, “Hi Aleksandr.” I declined. I told her that I wished that he’d mistake me for SJP. It sometimes happens and my hair was looking especially curly with very low frizz. She fired back, “Oh, now you’re going to play the SJP card?!” She was right but it was Misha for crying out loud.
Lingering turned into loitering. I was pretending to sift through a bin of random patches. And then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw Baryshnikov take off his Soviet spy leather coat, and say something to a seamstress (lucky bitch), at the back of the store. I was out of earshot.
He handed her his KGB overcoat and one lonely button. Baryshnikov had lost a button. Mystery solved. I screamed from the front of the store, “No! I know how to sew! I know how to sew! I took sewing in 8th grade in Bell School. Let me sew it for you. Please. It’s no trouble.”
I walked back to where he and that bitch were standing, grabbed his USSR coat, the single button and smiled. “Hey, how about those burgers at Columbus? Weren’t they juicy?”