Dear Swing Enthusiast,
I haven’t gone dancing in a long, long time. So much has happened while I’ve been away. I have both longed to tell you and ached at the sheer thought of attempting to tell you all the wonderful, mundane, sad, extraordinary, uneventful nothings filling up my time while I wasn’t swinging. But I woke up this morning under a new set of circumstances, much like those that first drew me to write to you. That’s right, folks. I’m single again. And my heart is all broken up just in time for Christmas.
It was only about a year ago I wrote to you about my last breakup. Only about a year ago that I last thought I would never love again. Breakups are a funny animal. Almost every single person you know has been through at least one breakup; but when it happens to you, it feels so profoundly personal, as though you’re the only one who has ever experienced such a senselessly unbearable thing. You feel nothing but terribly alone.
It wasn’t always heartache and pity parties with my shy Guy. He even came out dancing again before I gave it up almost entirely. In the last days of summer, Woody Bellagamba sumptuously performed and taught on Mayor’s Island. This tiny isle by the city magically transformed into a weekend tribute to the jazz age, requiring strictly vintage attire. With suspenders safety-pinned to his pants, Guy bravely stepped off the ferry from the city and into the bygone Prohibition era with flapper Sara Swing proudly beaming at his side. Woody taught us the Charleston while onlookers sipped “moonshine” out of tea cups in keeping with the dodgy times. Peggy and Svetlana looked nothing short of Gatsby royalty as they were photographed by a gaggle of photographers flocking to capture their romantic dedication to the past.
I can’t tell you how I worried about Guy as our day on the island began. The swing gang’s obsessive, nostalgic lifestyle choice might seem a bit cultish to a newbie swing-curious boyfriend. Who am I kidding? If Peggy asked me to drink the punch, I’d down a glass and chase it with a bottle of whatever old-timey concoction she put in front of me. Would Guy be freaked out by my swing cult? Would the admittedly ridiculous looking Charleston dance send him running into the water, swimming to urban safety for dear life? Would my dress-up fantasy put him off our blushing new romance? I simply couldn’t guess.
Turns out the Charleston is really Guy’s forte! Vladymir even noted the speed with which he picked up the steps. Guy’s impressive height and lanky build were wonderfully suited to this spaghetti of a dance. This added to his childlike wonder about the whole Mayor’s Island experience had my heart dancing all day long.
My shy Guy lead me for hours around the dance floor on what turned out to be a particularly sweltering day. Maybe it was the surprising grace of our over-heated bodies or maybe it was those darn suspenders, but following his gentle but unmistakable push and pull was undeniably sexy. When we arrived back at his place after the long, fairytale day, we collapsed into his bed in an exhausted, hot heap only after a night of doing that thing I had infamously never done before.
Surprisingly, my sleep that night was fitful. I awoke with a jolt in the middle of the night beside my newfound lover and dance partner. Suddenly, Guy was chattering away in what could be added to a long list of sleep-talking incidents I had given audience to over the course of our short-lived relationship thusfar. It was on this night he looked right at me, dead asleep, and said:
I know we haven’t known each other that long, but I have to tell you something. I love you.
I laid there in stunned silence. What nightmare? Guy, loved me!? Or was he asleep and talking to some inevitably Asian girl in his dreams? Eventually, I recovered my powers of speech:
What did you say?
Guy: Huh?
Me: Are you asleep?
Guy: I think so.
Oh. My. God. I swiftly rolled away from him to hide the disappointment written all over my face. False alarm, ladies. He loves some fantasy dream girl and has no idea what he just said to the girl actually lying in his bed. As I stewed in my own neuroticism, Guy sadly murmured:
Are you freaking out?
Me: What?
Guy: Because of what I just said.
Me: Do you even know what you just said?
Guy: Yes.
Me: Did you mean it?
Guy: Yes, but if you think it’s too soon, I underst—
Me: No! I feel the same way. I was just hoping you’d say it first.
Guy: Really?
Me: Yeah
Guy: Can I say it again?
Me: Yes, please.
Guy: I love you.
Me: I love you, too.
And we tenderly kissed like people do when they’re in love.
Not surprisingly, I’m a magnet for indecisive people who can’t commit to a little phrase like “I love you” for very long. Guy wavered back and forth on his midnight “I love you” declaration a hand full of times before we came to what may now be the end of our happily-never-after, web-based romance. Truth be told, I’m not sure it is, in fact, the end with us. He’s got some thinking to do and the embers of hope still burn in my little, swing-deprived heart. Will Guy decide he really does deeply love me and stick to it this time? And if he does, will my wounded pride allow me to take him back? I just don’t know. I certainly shouldn’t wait too long for someone who doesn’t seem to catch on to my sincere, witty, beautiful self. But I can’t help imagining that he’s known this about me all along and is on his own journey coming to terms with his feelings.
I know, I know. Delusional much?
Of one thing, I am certain. That night after we danced the day away on Mayor’s Island and made love for the first time in my heterosexual life, we were both very sure of each other and our newfound feelings. No matter how much my heart hurts now, I wouldn’t trade that midnight conversation for anything. That night, I felt the endless glory of love’s possibilities and the happiness we all seek. He may not love me today, but that night he did. And for that, I am foolishly grateful.
Yours Always,
-Sara
12.15.2008
9.01.2008
My Cheating Heart
Dear Swing Enthusiast,
I’ve been cheating on my dance studio… in more ways than one.
During August, Apple Guy asked me to join him at a competing studio one night a week. For all my good girl ways, cheating on the studio that first night was pretty exhilarating. All new, even more intense men availed themselves to me. To them, it was as if I appeared out of nowhere, an advanced follow to try their luck with. Apple Guy kept his distance, so other men would scoop me up. And scoop they did! I felt like the belle of the ball and the hot foreign exchange student all at once. It was scary, but it felt outstanding!
Of course, I never went back.
Apple Guy failed to mention or realize that he was going on vacation to the obvious continent of Asia for the rest of August and we would never be in class together at our mistress studio again that month. Without a familiar face in the class, cheating on the studio suddenly really felt like empty, lonely, guilt-ridden cheating. Apple Guy went off to visit the girls of his dreams while I let my money go to waste one missed class at a time. I did, however, find a pretty amazing replacement for sexy alternative swing night.
And his name is GUY.
I met him online, my friends. I should be an online dating commercial. I subscribed to the site for only two and a half weeks. I made first contact with Guy in the first week. We were so clearly compatible that I referred to him as “my future husband” to my mother and cousin while home for the bridal shower (a phrase I immediately retired for both our sakes as soon as I realized it could technically be true). I was a little overwhelmed by what a full-time job online dating was turning out to be. So many people with whom to converse! But Guy’s emails were the only ones that didn’t feel phony or desperate to impress. Each and every one of them made me laugh, ladies. I couldn’t help getting excited at the prospect of meeting him in person. I was beside myself with nervous excitement when the time came…
My quick introductory coffee date with the delightfully nerdy-but-cool Guy turned into an eight-hour epic event, complete with dinner and impromptu make-out session for dessert. I learned many valuable lessons on the best first date of my life, such as never wear the chastity belt that is the Spanx Hide & Sleek Hi-Rise Body Smoother (complete with convenient pull-apart pee hole, ladies!) on a date with a guy you’ve been dreaming about kissing/ mauling and don’t try curry for the first time in your life on date with said dreamboat, since you’ll soon discover you’re clearly allergic!
Several random Bridget-Jones-esque debacles later, I found myself walking home late at night as if in a dream. I got on the phone with roommate Parker Pansy and rambled aimlessly about the palpable spark I felt when we kissed for the first time… and the explosion of kisses and wandering hands that I ended up having to pull away from despite every fiber of my being pleading with me to be a different kind of girl for just one night of my knee-locked youth! Parker insightfully advised me to cherish my current walk in the clouds. He said, “This is the feeling we are all chasing after. It’s always a surprise and it almost never lasts.” I knew he was right and I’ve done my best to take his advice.
My mother had a heart to heart with me about Guy recently. It turns out the woman who wanted me to get laid so badly, doesn’t want me to rush into any heartbreaking situations again anytime soon either. She recognizes my impulsive, passionate nature and just can’t help doing what she can to protect me from what she warns is the inevitable disappointment of being so easily blinded by love. I tried to assure her that I’d learned some valuable lessons about rushing into commitment and declarations of undying love. But still the Swing Mamma had gripes! She had one more key concern- one I fear will be the end of me. She said:
Sara, you tell everyone, via blog or otherwise, all of your personal, private business. How do you think Guy is going to feel about that? I just think you should be careful.
Well, he can’t say I didn’t warn him, folks. He read The Swing Diaries before we ever met and I told him he would be spared blog immortality if he only followed one rule:
Don’t come to Swing!
You may have guessed by the last several paragraphs that he’s broken the cardinal rule. Yes, I lured the poor boy to the studio last week. Muhahahaha! Like Cowboy Girl before him, we took free introductory salsa and swing classes on Friday, followed by student and teacher performances, featuring Woody Bellagamba’s new swing opus. At first I was nervous I had set Guy up to hate dancing, but when the swing instructor taught us a simple hand changing men’s turn, my shy Guy came to life! Guy is pretty close to getting his black belt in the particularly graceful martial art form that is Aikido. Something about the grip on my wrist as he switched hands behind his back reminded him of the grip on the wrist of an Aikido opponent who’s arm he was about to break. Are you thinking what I’m thinking, ladies?
HOT!
After the fantastic studio performances (which included getting to sit beside Peggy!) Guy and I hit the practice session and took his 3 moves out for a spin. Some friends, including an adorably inebriated artist-by-day/ swinger-by-night who we’ll call MICHELANGELO, asked me to dance, giving me an opportunity to show my moves off to my new friend, despite an inexplicably bad case of stage fright. Michelangelo had felt my absence earlier that week and I confessed I had skipped swing class to spend my night with Guy. All my friends could tell I was on a date that night at the studio and affectionately teased me about it. I could feel my cheeks getting warmer and warmer with embarrassment. I liked Guy so much that I suddenly wanted to protect our budding relationship from the gaze of others. Don’t get me wrong! I was having fun, but, feeling my worlds collide, I rather abruptly suggested we make our exit. I wanted him all to myself.
I realize it may seem like I’m disregarding Mom’s warning, so blatantly writing about my new beau. But I always take care of the readers of my blog as they enter the storyline. (If you read carefully, you can pinpoint the exact moment I started writing about Apple Guy with the understanding that he might actually be reading it.) So, Guy never needs to worry about slander… well, not much. It might also be a helpful tool for any oblivious straight male to have such a specific doorway into the female psyche, chalk full of helpful hints (like: cough- text me to make sure I make it home safely late at night if I don’t stay over- cough, cough- it greatly increases chances of me staying over in the future- end cough). All men should be so lucky!
It’s Labor Day weekend and I’m sitting at my computer alone in the city in the middle of the night. Guy has gone home to suburbia for a barbecue with the family and I have spent the night yet again cheating on the studio at the city’s premiere lesbian dance club. I know what you’re thinking. Poor Guy! He leaves me alone for three days and I’m back to my old ways again. Despite this entry’s entire premise, I am not the cheating sort. I could never kiss, snuggle or get busy with more than the one special person of my choosing at a time.
But, ladies and gentleman, I can dance with every Tom, Dick and Harriet that glances in my general direction no matter what!
So, for anyone who fears that Guy might be the beginning of the end of The Swing Diaries, let me assure you I’m not going anywhere. There may not be swing love or, god forbid, swing sex (no change there) for the time being, but there will always be swing dancing!
Yours Truly,
-Sara
I’ve been cheating on my dance studio… in more ways than one.
During August, Apple Guy asked me to join him at a competing studio one night a week. For all my good girl ways, cheating on the studio that first night was pretty exhilarating. All new, even more intense men availed themselves to me. To them, it was as if I appeared out of nowhere, an advanced follow to try their luck with. Apple Guy kept his distance, so other men would scoop me up. And scoop they did! I felt like the belle of the ball and the hot foreign exchange student all at once. It was scary, but it felt outstanding!
Of course, I never went back.
Apple Guy failed to mention or realize that he was going on vacation to the obvious continent of Asia for the rest of August and we would never be in class together at our mistress studio again that month. Without a familiar face in the class, cheating on the studio suddenly really felt like empty, lonely, guilt-ridden cheating. Apple Guy went off to visit the girls of his dreams while I let my money go to waste one missed class at a time. I did, however, find a pretty amazing replacement for sexy alternative swing night.
And his name is GUY.
I met him online, my friends. I should be an online dating commercial. I subscribed to the site for only two and a half weeks. I made first contact with Guy in the first week. We were so clearly compatible that I referred to him as “my future husband” to my mother and cousin while home for the bridal shower (a phrase I immediately retired for both our sakes as soon as I realized it could technically be true). I was a little overwhelmed by what a full-time job online dating was turning out to be. So many people with whom to converse! But Guy’s emails were the only ones that didn’t feel phony or desperate to impress. Each and every one of them made me laugh, ladies. I couldn’t help getting excited at the prospect of meeting him in person. I was beside myself with nervous excitement when the time came…
My quick introductory coffee date with the delightfully nerdy-but-cool Guy turned into an eight-hour epic event, complete with dinner and impromptu make-out session for dessert. I learned many valuable lessons on the best first date of my life, such as never wear the chastity belt that is the Spanx Hide & Sleek Hi-Rise Body Smoother (complete with convenient pull-apart pee hole, ladies!) on a date with a guy you’ve been dreaming about kissing/ mauling and don’t try curry for the first time in your life on date with said dreamboat, since you’ll soon discover you’re clearly allergic!
Several random Bridget-Jones-esque debacles later, I found myself walking home late at night as if in a dream. I got on the phone with roommate Parker Pansy and rambled aimlessly about the palpable spark I felt when we kissed for the first time… and the explosion of kisses and wandering hands that I ended up having to pull away from despite every fiber of my being pleading with me to be a different kind of girl for just one night of my knee-locked youth! Parker insightfully advised me to cherish my current walk in the clouds. He said, “This is the feeling we are all chasing after. It’s always a surprise and it almost never lasts.” I knew he was right and I’ve done my best to take his advice.
My mother had a heart to heart with me about Guy recently. It turns out the woman who wanted me to get laid so badly, doesn’t want me to rush into any heartbreaking situations again anytime soon either. She recognizes my impulsive, passionate nature and just can’t help doing what she can to protect me from what she warns is the inevitable disappointment of being so easily blinded by love. I tried to assure her that I’d learned some valuable lessons about rushing into commitment and declarations of undying love. But still the Swing Mamma had gripes! She had one more key concern- one I fear will be the end of me. She said:
Sara, you tell everyone, via blog or otherwise, all of your personal, private business. How do you think Guy is going to feel about that? I just think you should be careful.
Well, he can’t say I didn’t warn him, folks. He read The Swing Diaries before we ever met and I told him he would be spared blog immortality if he only followed one rule:
Don’t come to Swing!
You may have guessed by the last several paragraphs that he’s broken the cardinal rule. Yes, I lured the poor boy to the studio last week. Muhahahaha! Like Cowboy Girl before him, we took free introductory salsa and swing classes on Friday, followed by student and teacher performances, featuring Woody Bellagamba’s new swing opus. At first I was nervous I had set Guy up to hate dancing, but when the swing instructor taught us a simple hand changing men’s turn, my shy Guy came to life! Guy is pretty close to getting his black belt in the particularly graceful martial art form that is Aikido. Something about the grip on my wrist as he switched hands behind his back reminded him of the grip on the wrist of an Aikido opponent who’s arm he was about to break. Are you thinking what I’m thinking, ladies?
HOT!
After the fantastic studio performances (which included getting to sit beside Peggy!) Guy and I hit the practice session and took his 3 moves out for a spin. Some friends, including an adorably inebriated artist-by-day/ swinger-by-night who we’ll call MICHELANGELO, asked me to dance, giving me an opportunity to show my moves off to my new friend, despite an inexplicably bad case of stage fright. Michelangelo had felt my absence earlier that week and I confessed I had skipped swing class to spend my night with Guy. All my friends could tell I was on a date that night at the studio and affectionately teased me about it. I could feel my cheeks getting warmer and warmer with embarrassment. I liked Guy so much that I suddenly wanted to protect our budding relationship from the gaze of others. Don’t get me wrong! I was having fun, but, feeling my worlds collide, I rather abruptly suggested we make our exit. I wanted him all to myself.
I realize it may seem like I’m disregarding Mom’s warning, so blatantly writing about my new beau. But I always take care of the readers of my blog as they enter the storyline. (If you read carefully, you can pinpoint the exact moment I started writing about Apple Guy with the understanding that he might actually be reading it.) So, Guy never needs to worry about slander… well, not much. It might also be a helpful tool for any oblivious straight male to have such a specific doorway into the female psyche, chalk full of helpful hints (like: cough- text me to make sure I make it home safely late at night if I don’t stay over- cough, cough- it greatly increases chances of me staying over in the future- end cough). All men should be so lucky!
It’s Labor Day weekend and I’m sitting at my computer alone in the city in the middle of the night. Guy has gone home to suburbia for a barbecue with the family and I have spent the night yet again cheating on the studio at the city’s premiere lesbian dance club. I know what you’re thinking. Poor Guy! He leaves me alone for three days and I’m back to my old ways again. Despite this entry’s entire premise, I am not the cheating sort. I could never kiss, snuggle or get busy with more than the one special person of my choosing at a time.
But, ladies and gentleman, I can dance with every Tom, Dick and Harriet that glances in my general direction no matter what!
So, for anyone who fears that Guy might be the beginning of the end of The Swing Diaries, let me assure you I’m not going anywhere. There may not be swing love or, god forbid, swing sex (no change there) for the time being, but there will always be swing dancing!
Yours Truly,
-Sara
8.22.2008
Big Yellow Taxi
Dear Swing Enthusiast,
I think I have successfully given the least welcome of my swing suitors the brush off.
The Chief was MIA at swing for much of the summer. Much to his vexation, he was forced to travel the globe without me at his side and in his bed. I was truly grateful to get a vacation from the cantankerous jitterbug who just can’t seem to grasp that he’s not getting any younger and not getting any of my younger flesh! Well, summer’s over, my gentle readers, and my Chief is back with a vengeance.
Since The Chief has been away, I have experienced tremendous personal swing growth. I’ve really begun to discover and, on my good days, master the upper body frame required to become a true lindy hop proficient. In some ways, frame is more than the steps. Good frame gives you the confidence, balance, elegance and strength to be led in almost any move with ease. When my frame is solid, I feel confident, feminine, and sexy. I become a more desirable dance partner- the type of partner the less advanced dancers are too intimidated to approach. Except, of course, The Chief.
That man dragged me around the floor for three straight dances of hell last week. He’s deluded himself into thinking he’s a solid dancer, despite the fact that he’s woefully out of practice and constantly stopping in the middle of a dance to restart like he’s a fucking PC. It would be one thing if he danced a single dance with me and then walked away, opening me up to the invitations of other far superior dancers. But he not only selfishly keeps me in a death grip for dance after dance without so much as asking me if I’d like to continue, but, to add insult to injury, he also attempts to blame me for most of his chronic blunders. The Chief needed to wake up to the fact that I’m simply not the same broken-hearted, spaghetti-spined girl he used to know. Clearly, I was the only one who could deliver this message.
It was during our fateful third dance together last week that The Chief tripped over his own jowls and had the audacity to spew, “Hey, you’re supposed to turn the other way. God, you can’t do anything tonight.” With the chorus of Kelly Clarkson’s Since You Been Gone playing in my head and the venom of a black mamba rattle snake slithering through my voice, I said what I would not dare say to any other man on the floor:
I could do it, if you could lead it.
Oh, snap! I said it and we both new I meant it. The Chief’s face suddenly tightened. Just as we finished dancing, I forcefully withdrew my hand and started to inch away from him, delivering my usually more courteous thanks. To my surprise, he began to reach out to lay claim to yet another dance. I think I visibly flinched, because his face reddened as he ferociously tore into me, “I guess you think you’re pretty good. Sorry for ruining your night!” And with that he fled the scene on a Vespa with his tail between his legs.
I instantly felt guilty. My friends tell me this type of behavior is necessary sometimes. A girl’s gotta be tough to get certain guys off her back. But, despite my sarcastic tendencies and the existence of this tell-all-blog, I hate to hurt anyone’s feelings. Regardless, what’s done is done. I did what I had to do.
The Chief didn’t show up to the studio this week. I found myself wondering if he’d ever come back. As you know, I haven’t seen Norman Nurman around at all either. Grisly Adam blew out his knee and is most likely married. And worst of all, Apple Guy has gone away on vacation to Asia (duh…) for weeks. Apple Guy has become my dating mentor and one of my best city friends. Dancing with him is like curling up on the couch in my favorite pajamas. It’s familiar, warm, generous, and missed.
Don't it always seem to go that you don't know what you've got 'til it's gone?
Before you get out the violin (or acoustic guitar as it were) and tissues, I should tell you I had a blast at swing this week. All new amazing dancers and the temporarily partnerless father-to-be Vladymir of The Russian Clan cut a rug with me. Peggy brought stunning wedding hat creations she was working on for a little show-and-tell on the side lines. And in true Sara Swing fashion, I entertained all my swing friends with tales of my online dating adventures. I’ve let my dating phobia get the best of me in the past, but by taking my fears to the web, suddenly I am the master of my own romantic destiny. This novice dater has become a dating machine! Ok, honesty, I’m already making plans to slow down and simplify, but, in the meantime, there will be flirting and there will be kissing and there will be absolutely no regrets.
Hey, a girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do.
Ciao,
-Sara
I think I have successfully given the least welcome of my swing suitors the brush off.
The Chief was MIA at swing for much of the summer. Much to his vexation, he was forced to travel the globe without me at his side and in his bed. I was truly grateful to get a vacation from the cantankerous jitterbug who just can’t seem to grasp that he’s not getting any younger and not getting any of my younger flesh! Well, summer’s over, my gentle readers, and my Chief is back with a vengeance.
Since The Chief has been away, I have experienced tremendous personal swing growth. I’ve really begun to discover and, on my good days, master the upper body frame required to become a true lindy hop proficient. In some ways, frame is more than the steps. Good frame gives you the confidence, balance, elegance and strength to be led in almost any move with ease. When my frame is solid, I feel confident, feminine, and sexy. I become a more desirable dance partner- the type of partner the less advanced dancers are too intimidated to approach. Except, of course, The Chief.
That man dragged me around the floor for three straight dances of hell last week. He’s deluded himself into thinking he’s a solid dancer, despite the fact that he’s woefully out of practice and constantly stopping in the middle of a dance to restart like he’s a fucking PC. It would be one thing if he danced a single dance with me and then walked away, opening me up to the invitations of other far superior dancers. But he not only selfishly keeps me in a death grip for dance after dance without so much as asking me if I’d like to continue, but, to add insult to injury, he also attempts to blame me for most of his chronic blunders. The Chief needed to wake up to the fact that I’m simply not the same broken-hearted, spaghetti-spined girl he used to know. Clearly, I was the only one who could deliver this message.
It was during our fateful third dance together last week that The Chief tripped over his own jowls and had the audacity to spew, “Hey, you’re supposed to turn the other way. God, you can’t do anything tonight.” With the chorus of Kelly Clarkson’s Since You Been Gone playing in my head and the venom of a black mamba rattle snake slithering through my voice, I said what I would not dare say to any other man on the floor:
I could do it, if you could lead it.
Oh, snap! I said it and we both new I meant it. The Chief’s face suddenly tightened. Just as we finished dancing, I forcefully withdrew my hand and started to inch away from him, delivering my usually more courteous thanks. To my surprise, he began to reach out to lay claim to yet another dance. I think I visibly flinched, because his face reddened as he ferociously tore into me, “I guess you think you’re pretty good. Sorry for ruining your night!” And with that he fled the scene on a Vespa with his tail between his legs.
I instantly felt guilty. My friends tell me this type of behavior is necessary sometimes. A girl’s gotta be tough to get certain guys off her back. But, despite my sarcastic tendencies and the existence of this tell-all-blog, I hate to hurt anyone’s feelings. Regardless, what’s done is done. I did what I had to do.
The Chief didn’t show up to the studio this week. I found myself wondering if he’d ever come back. As you know, I haven’t seen Norman Nurman around at all either. Grisly Adam blew out his knee and is most likely married. And worst of all, Apple Guy has gone away on vacation to Asia (duh…) for weeks. Apple Guy has become my dating mentor and one of my best city friends. Dancing with him is like curling up on the couch in my favorite pajamas. It’s familiar, warm, generous, and missed.
Don't it always seem to go that you don't know what you've got 'til it's gone?
Before you get out the violin (or acoustic guitar as it were) and tissues, I should tell you I had a blast at swing this week. All new amazing dancers and the temporarily partnerless father-to-be Vladymir of The Russian Clan cut a rug with me. Peggy brought stunning wedding hat creations she was working on for a little show-and-tell on the side lines. And in true Sara Swing fashion, I entertained all my swing friends with tales of my online dating adventures. I’ve let my dating phobia get the best of me in the past, but by taking my fears to the web, suddenly I am the master of my own romantic destiny. This novice dater has become a dating machine! Ok, honesty, I’m already making plans to slow down and simplify, but, in the meantime, there will be flirting and there will be kissing and there will be absolutely no regrets.
Hey, a girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do.
Ciao,
-Sara
8.13.2008
Always a Bridesmaid
Dear Swing Enthusiast,
I know. I’ve been remiss. What can I say? I’m a heartbreaker.
By the end of July, I had broken poor Norman Nurman’s heart. After our infamous date , he reached out to me a predictable number of times requesting another date. Apple Guy, among others, suggested I nonchalantly decline a couple of times with a general lack of enthusiasm for his invitation and he’d get the hint soon enough.
Uh… not quite. Norman did, in fact, get the hint and he didn’t like it one bit. An online chat took a turn for the worse when he said:
are you sort of telling me but not really telling me that you just want to be swing buddies?
They say a direct question deserves a direct answer. Apparently, they didn’t say it loud enough though, because I responded with the wishy washy:
Would you be mad if I said maybe yes?
I waited for what seemed like an eternity for his response, frantically trying to get Peggy and the girls from my old job, like the dating savvy Sandy Sunshine, online for some emergency advice. While the girls chimed in, Norman’s much anticipated answer came:
and what if I said I would be
What!? Oh No! Was he serious? He was not about to make this easy for me. Sandy Sunshine, no stranger to the online dating world and, therefore, the electronic rules of engagement, was particularly surprised at his less than chivalrous response. After much debating, I responded:
If you said yes, that would be sad, since I would genuinely like to be your swing friend.
As Peggy and the gang patted me on the back via email on my diplomatic choice of words, Norman violently retorted:
i'm not mad that you just want to be friends, but i am annoyed that i had to glean it from you, rather than you just say so. i also find my self-esteem cut down a bit. but i'll deal with it.
Come on, buddy! Take it like a man. Did I mention that I discovered on our date that this bore looks deceivingly young? He’s almost 40, people. Are these martyr tactics the behavior of a middle aged man? I think not. It seemed there was nothing I could do to smooth things over with Norman Nurman, so I simply chose not respond. We haven’t spoken since.
This whole stupid Norman Nurman experience / fiasco succeeded in turning me off dating. What had begun only weeks ago as a joyful experiment, ended in a guilt ridden dead-end. I live in fear of Norman returning to the dance studio to resume his swing studies, awkwardly avoiding the not-so-easy girl who wounded his oblivious swing ego. Thankfully, it hasn’t happened yet. But I also hate to think I scared him away from his beloved dance hobby with one empty kiss. Why does this whole dating trial-and-error thing always have to hurt someone? Were Apple Guy and I the only ones swinging who could flirt, figure out we weren’t meant for each other and forge an ever-growing friendship despite initial discomfiture? All my friends seem to think so. It’s the inevitability of heartache that makes us all want to stop trying. I am no exception.
At the peak of my debatably trivial sorrow, one of my most enthusiastic supporters, a kindhearted, worldly, endearingly neurotic woman named Francesca, suggested we collaborate on a book to perhaps be called What If You Are Not Having Sex in the City?.
Of course, she would think of me first for such a book. Here I am, practically ashamed of my own hunger for a good “deep dicking,” now considering co-authoring a book clearly defining how hopeless my own case is…
I actually think it’s a great idea. Who knows? It could have a happy ending!
Maybe it was in the name of book research or maybe it was just in the name of fun, regardless, like Sandy Sunshine and Dalia Domina before me, I joined the online dating community the day after my 26th birthday. Admittedly, I had always thought this mode of playing the field just a tad beneath my dignity, but, apparently, it’s okay to look…
To top it all off, everyone around me is winning the race to grow up. Svetlana and Vladymir, an adorable young couple at the dance studio henceforth knows as THE RUSSIANS, had big news last week. I first started talking to these two jitterbugs months ago when I walked up to Svetlana and uttered the unthinkably taboo, “Are you pregnant?” Guess what? She wasn’t. I still can’t believe it happened. I had no choice but to initiate a wholehearted friendship with them in the hopes of being forgiven for the unforgiveable. Judging from the rides home they offer and the online chat they both grant me on occasion, I am now in their good graces just in time for Svetlana to announce that she and her husband are, indeed, expecting. I brim with joy for them!
Despite their youth and vigor, The Russians do have a couple years on me. I am very young and, as they like to say, “have my whole life ahead of me.” But last weekend I went home to suburbia to host the bridal shower of my high school best friend. That’s right; my best friend is all grown up and getting married. I’m a pretty progressive girl. I’m in no rush to get married and have a family. I have always been somewhat hopeful that all that stuff would fall into place in its own time, and when you fall madly in love with a girl at 24, you start reimagining the white picket fence your mother dreamed up for you. But when your bosom buddy of fifteen years and the prom date you set her up with a decade ago decide to commit their lives to each other, it simply must give you pause. Maybe, just maybe, I’m another ill-fated spinster, all washed up at 26.
And, of course, I’m the fat bridesmaid! At a size 6, I am the thickest stem in the David’s Bridal clad bunch. After a post-shower evening in with girls, featuring my old high school girlfriends sitting around the groom’s computer screen laughing at some of the less suave prospects on my dating site of choice, I went home to the Swing Mom’s house and tried on the big cliché of a strapless bridesmaid’s gown in the wee hours of the night. As I stood before a ghetto mirror propped up in my mother’s spare bedroom, I was surprised at how gorgeous the dress really looked on me. After self-indulgently posing in it for God only knows how long, I reluctantly peeled off the dress and stood in front of the mirror for a moment in nothing but my high heels. For the second time that night, I was surprised at the beauty of what I saw looking back at me in the mirror.
Isn’t it amazing what a pair of heels can do for a girl?
Yours Truly,
-Sara
I know. I’ve been remiss. What can I say? I’m a heartbreaker.
By the end of July, I had broken poor Norman Nurman’s heart. After our infamous date , he reached out to me a predictable number of times requesting another date. Apple Guy, among others, suggested I nonchalantly decline a couple of times with a general lack of enthusiasm for his invitation and he’d get the hint soon enough.
Uh… not quite. Norman did, in fact, get the hint and he didn’t like it one bit. An online chat took a turn for the worse when he said:
are you sort of telling me but not really telling me that you just want to be swing buddies?
They say a direct question deserves a direct answer. Apparently, they didn’t say it loud enough though, because I responded with the wishy washy:
Would you be mad if I said maybe yes?
I waited for what seemed like an eternity for his response, frantically trying to get Peggy and the girls from my old job, like the dating savvy Sandy Sunshine, online for some emergency advice. While the girls chimed in, Norman’s much anticipated answer came:
and what if I said I would be
What!? Oh No! Was he serious? He was not about to make this easy for me. Sandy Sunshine, no stranger to the online dating world and, therefore, the electronic rules of engagement, was particularly surprised at his less than chivalrous response. After much debating, I responded:
If you said yes, that would be sad, since I would genuinely like to be your swing friend.
As Peggy and the gang patted me on the back via email on my diplomatic choice of words, Norman violently retorted:
i'm not mad that you just want to be friends, but i am annoyed that i had to glean it from you, rather than you just say so. i also find my self-esteem cut down a bit. but i'll deal with it.
Come on, buddy! Take it like a man. Did I mention that I discovered on our date that this bore looks deceivingly young? He’s almost 40, people. Are these martyr tactics the behavior of a middle aged man? I think not. It seemed there was nothing I could do to smooth things over with Norman Nurman, so I simply chose not respond. We haven’t spoken since.
This whole stupid Norman Nurman experience / fiasco succeeded in turning me off dating. What had begun only weeks ago as a joyful experiment, ended in a guilt ridden dead-end. I live in fear of Norman returning to the dance studio to resume his swing studies, awkwardly avoiding the not-so-easy girl who wounded his oblivious swing ego. Thankfully, it hasn’t happened yet. But I also hate to think I scared him away from his beloved dance hobby with one empty kiss. Why does this whole dating trial-and-error thing always have to hurt someone? Were Apple Guy and I the only ones swinging who could flirt, figure out we weren’t meant for each other and forge an ever-growing friendship despite initial discomfiture? All my friends seem to think so. It’s the inevitability of heartache that makes us all want to stop trying. I am no exception.
At the peak of my debatably trivial sorrow, one of my most enthusiastic supporters, a kindhearted, worldly, endearingly neurotic woman named Francesca, suggested we collaborate on a book to perhaps be called What If You Are Not Having Sex in the City?.
Of course, she would think of me first for such a book. Here I am, practically ashamed of my own hunger for a good “deep dicking,” now considering co-authoring a book clearly defining how hopeless my own case is…
I actually think it’s a great idea. Who knows? It could have a happy ending!
Maybe it was in the name of book research or maybe it was just in the name of fun, regardless, like Sandy Sunshine and Dalia Domina before me, I joined the online dating community the day after my 26th birthday. Admittedly, I had always thought this mode of playing the field just a tad beneath my dignity, but, apparently, it’s okay to look…
To top it all off, everyone around me is winning the race to grow up. Svetlana and Vladymir, an adorable young couple at the dance studio henceforth knows as THE RUSSIANS, had big news last week. I first started talking to these two jitterbugs months ago when I walked up to Svetlana and uttered the unthinkably taboo, “Are you pregnant?” Guess what? She wasn’t. I still can’t believe it happened. I had no choice but to initiate a wholehearted friendship with them in the hopes of being forgiven for the unforgiveable. Judging from the rides home they offer and the online chat they both grant me on occasion, I am now in their good graces just in time for Svetlana to announce that she and her husband are, indeed, expecting. I brim with joy for them!
Despite their youth and vigor, The Russians do have a couple years on me. I am very young and, as they like to say, “have my whole life ahead of me.” But last weekend I went home to suburbia to host the bridal shower of my high school best friend. That’s right; my best friend is all grown up and getting married. I’m a pretty progressive girl. I’m in no rush to get married and have a family. I have always been somewhat hopeful that all that stuff would fall into place in its own time, and when you fall madly in love with a girl at 24, you start reimagining the white picket fence your mother dreamed up for you. But when your bosom buddy of fifteen years and the prom date you set her up with a decade ago decide to commit their lives to each other, it simply must give you pause. Maybe, just maybe, I’m another ill-fated spinster, all washed up at 26.
And, of course, I’m the fat bridesmaid! At a size 6, I am the thickest stem in the David’s Bridal clad bunch. After a post-shower evening in with girls, featuring my old high school girlfriends sitting around the groom’s computer screen laughing at some of the less suave prospects on my dating site of choice, I went home to the Swing Mom’s house and tried on the big cliché of a strapless bridesmaid’s gown in the wee hours of the night. As I stood before a ghetto mirror propped up in my mother’s spare bedroom, I was surprised at how gorgeous the dress really looked on me. After self-indulgently posing in it for God only knows how long, I reluctantly peeled off the dress and stood in front of the mirror for a moment in nothing but my high heels. For the second time that night, I was surprised at the beauty of what I saw looking back at me in the mirror.
Isn’t it amazing what a pair of heels can do for a girl?
Yours Truly,
-Sara
7.18.2008
My Date with Norman Nurman
Dear Swing Enthusiast,
So many men, so few sparks…
Maybe I am a lesbian.
Now, I know that you rarely find someone special by actively looking for him or her. Cupid always gets you when you least expect it.
Tell that to my hormones.
Between the clearing skin and hysterical urge to mate, I must be ovulating. I want to cuddle and smooch and (subconsciously) make babies! Making babies isn’t going to happen, but, at times like these, I think we can all admit that you want to shout from the rooftops:
I WANT A FUCKING BOYFRIEND!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Okay, I admit it. I want a boyfriend. And not just any boyfriend. I want a sexy boyfriend. I don’t want to be thinking about marriage, but I also don’t want to be thinking… I’m definitely NOT going to marry this guy. I know it’s not going to happen at my request or convenience or, god forbid, at all, but I am humbly telling you that I am officially pining.
This is probably why I let Norman Nurman kiss me on our date. Twice!
I regret some of the things I said about Norman Nurman last week. He’s a terrific person and took me on a splendidly romantic date. Our first stop was a cute rooftop bar, and I actually had an entire glass of white wine (unheard of behavior for Sara Swing)! I warned him that this was the most liquor I had ever had in my life. But I was with Norman Nurman! He’s practically an R2 unit; there’s certainly no danger of him taking advantage. Or so I thought…
I had made the incredibly good decision of not eating anything all day on the day of my date, only to quickly imbibe a beverage with a high alcohol content at the top of said date. What was I trying to prove? Actually, that’s just it. I wasn’t trying to prove anything. I didn’t care. I knew it would be ok and it totally was… if you don’t count the one pedestrian collision on the way to dinner. But we don’t have to talk about that.
He took me to this awesome Korean restaurant where we had to take off our shoes! I thought this was a wonderfully novel treat. At this point, we were eating and the wine had lost any power over me. I thought Norman’s liquid courage must still be going strong when he proceeded to get frisky under the table… playing footsie! I was pleasantly reminded of how much I like to rub feet with a special someone… so I just let it happen. It was Norman Nurman; what was the harm?
After dinner, Norman and I were at a bit of an impasse…
Norman Nurman: Um, well… do you think you’d like to get another drink?
Me: I’m ok.
Norman Nurman: You sure?
Me: I don’t need another drink.
Norman Nurman: But would you like one?
Me: Honestly? No, not really.
Norman Nurman: Hmmm… um- what to do now then? Where do you want to go?
Me: We could just walk.
Norman Nurman: It is a nice night. How about going back to the park we met up at.
Me: Sounds great.
Norman Nurman: Or we could go back to the bar...
Me: Um… let’s go to the park.
Norman Nurman: Oh, wait. The park is closed.
Me: Oh.
Norman: Is there anything else in particular you’d like to do?
Me: I’m pretty flexible. You’ve taken us this far…
Norman: Ok, let’s go back to the bar then.
And so we did. At this point, I was having an out of body experience. Each step I took toward the bar was a step toward a lie. I did not want to have another drink. I had said this. Why was he pressing it and why was I caving? It seemed to be because, once again, I just didn’t mind. I knew I wasn’t going to let myself get drunk and I knew that Norman Nurman didn’t have it in him to get me drunk. When he asked me what I wanted to drink, I said, “surprise me” with a flirtatious smile. He was shocked. For me, the date was entering a new faze: target practice.
He brought over a whiskey and a pinot noir. I knew he was lying when he said the whiskey was for me, but I didn’t bat an eyelash as I took a sip. I could have killed him, because it tasted like radioactive yellow homeless guy pee… but whatever. When in Rome! I slowly sipped my rightful wine after that, careful not to finish it, while we sat under the dark night sky languidly chatting about nothing I can recall. As boastful as it sounds, I knew Norman wanted me, and- god help me- I liked it! I liked feeling confident and sexy and captivating. For once in my life, I was pretending to be like all the other girls who made it look so easy. Suddenly, Norman did the incredibly awkward yawn + arm-around-girl move (sans wink of cliché acknowledgement). He gently pulled me to him and our lips met.
It’s never a good sign when you’re thinking about your mother during a first kiss. At that moment, I knew that kissing Norman Nurman at the rooftop bar was a mistake. A minor misdemeanor perhaps, but, nonetheless, just not me. At least it would make a good story for Mamma Swing, who’s wishing I was doing more of this sort of thing, lest I climb aboard the lesbians-who-aren’t-good-to-sara bus again. Hell, I’d be lying if I said I didn’t agree to go on the date in the first place in hopes of a good story to tell all of you. I might have been in over my head, but I had to admit I was getting exactly what I bargained for.
The thing is- I have never been like all those “other girls that make it look so easy.” Something tells me that no one is.
Despite Norman’s surprisingly supple lips, my heart was not in that rooftop kiss, and it was never going to be. So, walking to the subway with Norman Nurman, I was faced with a choice. He was going to go in for another kiss. I could either pull away or take the hit. But why did it have to be so black and white? Perhaps I was being too hard on myself and poor Norman. Why couldn’t I enjoy a simple kiss? Perhaps I could use this opportunity to practice my craft. Who needs books when you have a live lab rat sitting in front of you? And so, in the true spirit of my first and last date with Norman Nurman, I said to myself…
Why the hell not!?
Yeah, I kissed him. I kissed him gooooood.
Love,
-Sara
So many men, so few sparks…
Maybe I am a lesbian.
Now, I know that you rarely find someone special by actively looking for him or her. Cupid always gets you when you least expect it.
Tell that to my hormones.
Between the clearing skin and hysterical urge to mate, I must be ovulating. I want to cuddle and smooch and (subconsciously) make babies! Making babies isn’t going to happen, but, at times like these, I think we can all admit that you want to shout from the rooftops:
I WANT A FUCKING BOYFRIEND!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Okay, I admit it. I want a boyfriend. And not just any boyfriend. I want a sexy boyfriend. I don’t want to be thinking about marriage, but I also don’t want to be thinking… I’m definitely NOT going to marry this guy. I know it’s not going to happen at my request or convenience or, god forbid, at all, but I am humbly telling you that I am officially pining.
This is probably why I let Norman Nurman kiss me on our date. Twice!
I regret some of the things I said about Norman Nurman last week. He’s a terrific person and took me on a splendidly romantic date. Our first stop was a cute rooftop bar, and I actually had an entire glass of white wine (unheard of behavior for Sara Swing)! I warned him that this was the most liquor I had ever had in my life. But I was with Norman Nurman! He’s practically an R2 unit; there’s certainly no danger of him taking advantage. Or so I thought…
I had made the incredibly good decision of not eating anything all day on the day of my date, only to quickly imbibe a beverage with a high alcohol content at the top of said date. What was I trying to prove? Actually, that’s just it. I wasn’t trying to prove anything. I didn’t care. I knew it would be ok and it totally was… if you don’t count the one pedestrian collision on the way to dinner. But we don’t have to talk about that.
He took me to this awesome Korean restaurant where we had to take off our shoes! I thought this was a wonderfully novel treat. At this point, we were eating and the wine had lost any power over me. I thought Norman’s liquid courage must still be going strong when he proceeded to get frisky under the table… playing footsie! I was pleasantly reminded of how much I like to rub feet with a special someone… so I just let it happen. It was Norman Nurman; what was the harm?
After dinner, Norman and I were at a bit of an impasse…
Norman Nurman: Um, well… do you think you’d like to get another drink?
Me: I’m ok.
Norman Nurman: You sure?
Me: I don’t need another drink.
Norman Nurman: But would you like one?
Me: Honestly? No, not really.
Norman Nurman: Hmmm… um- what to do now then? Where do you want to go?
Me: We could just walk.
Norman Nurman: It is a nice night. How about going back to the park we met up at.
Me: Sounds great.
Norman Nurman: Or we could go back to the bar...
Me: Um… let’s go to the park.
Norman Nurman: Oh, wait. The park is closed.
Me: Oh.
Norman: Is there anything else in particular you’d like to do?
Me: I’m pretty flexible. You’ve taken us this far…
Norman: Ok, let’s go back to the bar then.
And so we did. At this point, I was having an out of body experience. Each step I took toward the bar was a step toward a lie. I did not want to have another drink. I had said this. Why was he pressing it and why was I caving? It seemed to be because, once again, I just didn’t mind. I knew I wasn’t going to let myself get drunk and I knew that Norman Nurman didn’t have it in him to get me drunk. When he asked me what I wanted to drink, I said, “surprise me” with a flirtatious smile. He was shocked. For me, the date was entering a new faze: target practice.
He brought over a whiskey and a pinot noir. I knew he was lying when he said the whiskey was for me, but I didn’t bat an eyelash as I took a sip. I could have killed him, because it tasted like radioactive yellow homeless guy pee… but whatever. When in Rome! I slowly sipped my rightful wine after that, careful not to finish it, while we sat under the dark night sky languidly chatting about nothing I can recall. As boastful as it sounds, I knew Norman wanted me, and- god help me- I liked it! I liked feeling confident and sexy and captivating. For once in my life, I was pretending to be like all the other girls who made it look so easy. Suddenly, Norman did the incredibly awkward yawn + arm-around-girl move (sans wink of cliché acknowledgement). He gently pulled me to him and our lips met.
It’s never a good sign when you’re thinking about your mother during a first kiss. At that moment, I knew that kissing Norman Nurman at the rooftop bar was a mistake. A minor misdemeanor perhaps, but, nonetheless, just not me. At least it would make a good story for Mamma Swing, who’s wishing I was doing more of this sort of thing, lest I climb aboard the lesbians-who-aren’t-good-to-sara bus again. Hell, I’d be lying if I said I didn’t agree to go on the date in the first place in hopes of a good story to tell all of you. I might have been in over my head, but I had to admit I was getting exactly what I bargained for.
The thing is- I have never been like all those “other girls that make it look so easy.” Something tells me that no one is.
Despite Norman’s surprisingly supple lips, my heart was not in that rooftop kiss, and it was never going to be. So, walking to the subway with Norman Nurman, I was faced with a choice. He was going to go in for another kiss. I could either pull away or take the hit. But why did it have to be so black and white? Perhaps I was being too hard on myself and poor Norman. Why couldn’t I enjoy a simple kiss? Perhaps I could use this opportunity to practice my craft. Who needs books when you have a live lab rat sitting in front of you? And so, in the true spirit of my first and last date with Norman Nurman, I said to myself…
Why the hell not!?
Yeah, I kissed him. I kissed him gooooood.
Love,
-Sara
7.10.2008
The Computer Wore Dancing Shoes
Dear Swing Enthusiast,
I’m in trouble.
I have agreed to go on a date with NORMAN NURMAN tomorrow!
Yes, this is the same Norman Nurman I revealed in my last letter as,”so-boring-I-keep-forgetting-to-tell-you-about-him.” He’s been hounding me for over a month to go to Dancing Under The Stars, an annual swing dancing festival extravaganza here in the city. He emailed, facebook messaged, called, and texted me in his quest for this date; it was a full artillery assault.
I’ve never been a big dater. I have always fallen for friends. Before last weekend, I had only been on two real let’s-see-if-we-hit-it-off dates in my life. The first was with a guy we’ll call GIDEON DICK. Charming, talented, and smart, Gideon Dick had it all and seemed to really dig me. Yes, I asked him out, but only because he was too shy to go for it himself. At dinner, Gideon went on and on and on and on about my many outstanding qualities, only to stamp on my ego and dub me a “Screwball” at then end of the evening. Apparently funny girls intimidate some guys…
However, Gideon Dick has nothing on IAGO DE THESPIAN. Shakespearean actor Iago de Thespian had been enamored on me for almost a year prior to our date. Finally, I convinced myself it could work. We were slated to go to a free classical play in the park. First, we had to wait in line for the tickets that morning, which went smoothly. Iago then ran off to the airport with his best friend, who was returning home to China on that very day. He ended up not calling me for dinner as planned and not showing up until the second act of the play that night! I took a good hard look at him upon his arrival, only to discover he was covered in hickeys he did not have that morning. The conversation then went something like this:
Me: Are those hickeys?
Iago de Thespian: (dramatically looking down in shame) Yes. They are.
Me: I see.
Iago de Thespian: You know what the worst part is?
Me: What?
Iago de Thespian: She missed her flight.
Me: You were at the airport for a long time; how long does it take to miss a flight?
Needless to say, I was offended. The careless pig actually tried to ask me out again at the end of the date. Six months later, Iago got drunk at a party with a bunch of my friends and cried about how he’d ruined his chances with me by “ending” one relationship on the same day that he tried to start one with me.
Sooooooo not my problem.
But, ladies and gentlemen, my luck seems to have changed. I recently went on a date for the first time in a long time, and actually had a lovely time. This guy (yes, guy) didn’t abandon me, marginalize me with belittling nicknames meant to give me the brush off, or suck face with some foreign girl in the middle of our date. (Have I accidentally found myself in a secret feudal war with Asian girls?) He even checked to make sure I made it home safety. In my book, this date is the first ever success story!
Of course, he doesn’t live in the same city as me and hasn’t contacted me since our date. (it’s been whole days, people!) So when Norman Nurman asked me out this week using every communication weapon in his arsenal, I felt I had no choice but to give the guy a chance. I mean, why is it always the ones that pay attention to you that you take for granted and the ones that barely notice you that make your heart skip a beat? When someone goes out of his way to show you he thinks you're special, it’s worth overlooking a few dweeby flaws, right?
You see, Norman Nurman is more like a robot than a person. Sweet? Yes. Good looking? Yes. (And Asian! Ooh-la-la!) Smart? Totally. Rich in personal intrigue? Hell no. He works with computers and volunteers at an animal shelter. The latter point is a very pleasing quality, but it doesn’t make up for the fact that my heart flat-lines whenever he’s near.
But maybe I’ve misjudged Mr. Nurman.
It turns out Dancing Under The Stars is exclusively Salsa on Friday night, so Norman asked if we could make alternative plans. I rather reluctantly agreed. He then sent me the following oh-so-sexy text message:
I will send you details in forthcoming correspondence.
Yesterday, I received that highly anticipated correspondence in the form of a text with the time and outdoor meeting location of our date. I then asked:
What’s on the itinerary or is it a mystery?
Norman Nurman: If I tell you, I’d have to, well you know…
Wow. Ding, ding! Maybe Norman Nurman has a few tricks up his sleeve. He then quickly followed with:
Oh hey, do you eat meat?
Enter my roommate, Parker, the Will to my Grace. Parker brilliantly proposed that I play into Norman’s little innuendo game, so I responded with a cheeky…
If I tell you, I’d have to, well you know…
Quickly followed by:
P.S. Yes, I eat meat.
Parker and I felt sure that whatever his response, it would be a sign of whether or not he could really handle a sweet but truly sassy woman like myself.
And his response was:
Good thing you’re cute Miss Smarty Pants! ;-)
Uh- fatal error. Disappointing at best. What does that even mean? Well, golly gee! I’m gonna gitcha, Miss Smarty Pants! Wow, Norman. I'm really shakin' in my boots.
Some might say my standards are too high. He’s just trying to be witty. …and failing. Suggestive banter is far from the key to my heart. I’m an outgoing girl. I am highly compatible with socially awkward introverts. I guess I’m just hoping for a feisty, passionate heart underneath the timid façade. I love a geek! I am a geek! But I guess I love it more when my beloved geek doesn't push to be something he or she is not. When you try to act so much cooler than you are, it usually rings false. Regardless, I have it on good authority that one thing can be said for Norman Nurman and his tame breed.
They’re tigers in the sack.
Wish me luck! I think I’m gonna need it…
Yours Truly,
Sara
I’m in trouble.
I have agreed to go on a date with NORMAN NURMAN tomorrow!
Yes, this is the same Norman Nurman I revealed in my last letter as,”so-boring-I-keep-forgetting-to-tell-you-about-him.” He’s been hounding me for over a month to go to Dancing Under The Stars, an annual swing dancing festival extravaganza here in the city. He emailed, facebook messaged, called, and texted me in his quest for this date; it was a full artillery assault.
I’ve never been a big dater. I have always fallen for friends. Before last weekend, I had only been on two real let’s-see-if-we-hit-it-off dates in my life. The first was with a guy we’ll call GIDEON DICK. Charming, talented, and smart, Gideon Dick had it all and seemed to really dig me. Yes, I asked him out, but only because he was too shy to go for it himself. At dinner, Gideon went on and on and on and on about my many outstanding qualities, only to stamp on my ego and dub me a “Screwball” at then end of the evening. Apparently funny girls intimidate some guys…
However, Gideon Dick has nothing on IAGO DE THESPIAN. Shakespearean actor Iago de Thespian had been enamored on me for almost a year prior to our date. Finally, I convinced myself it could work. We were slated to go to a free classical play in the park. First, we had to wait in line for the tickets that morning, which went smoothly. Iago then ran off to the airport with his best friend, who was returning home to China on that very day. He ended up not calling me for dinner as planned and not showing up until the second act of the play that night! I took a good hard look at him upon his arrival, only to discover he was covered in hickeys he did not have that morning. The conversation then went something like this:
Me: Are those hickeys?
Iago de Thespian: (dramatically looking down in shame) Yes. They are.
Me: I see.
Iago de Thespian: You know what the worst part is?
Me: What?
Iago de Thespian: She missed her flight.
Me: You were at the airport for a long time; how long does it take to miss a flight?
Needless to say, I was offended. The careless pig actually tried to ask me out again at the end of the date. Six months later, Iago got drunk at a party with a bunch of my friends and cried about how he’d ruined his chances with me by “ending” one relationship on the same day that he tried to start one with me.
Sooooooo not my problem.
But, ladies and gentlemen, my luck seems to have changed. I recently went on a date for the first time in a long time, and actually had a lovely time. This guy (yes, guy) didn’t abandon me, marginalize me with belittling nicknames meant to give me the brush off, or suck face with some foreign girl in the middle of our date. (Have I accidentally found myself in a secret feudal war with Asian girls?) He even checked to make sure I made it home safety. In my book, this date is the first ever success story!
Of course, he doesn’t live in the same city as me and hasn’t contacted me since our date. (it’s been whole days, people!) So when Norman Nurman asked me out this week using every communication weapon in his arsenal, I felt I had no choice but to give the guy a chance. I mean, why is it always the ones that pay attention to you that you take for granted and the ones that barely notice you that make your heart skip a beat? When someone goes out of his way to show you he thinks you're special, it’s worth overlooking a few dweeby flaws, right?
You see, Norman Nurman is more like a robot than a person. Sweet? Yes. Good looking? Yes. (And Asian! Ooh-la-la!) Smart? Totally. Rich in personal intrigue? Hell no. He works with computers and volunteers at an animal shelter. The latter point is a very pleasing quality, but it doesn’t make up for the fact that my heart flat-lines whenever he’s near.
But maybe I’ve misjudged Mr. Nurman.
It turns out Dancing Under The Stars is exclusively Salsa on Friday night, so Norman asked if we could make alternative plans. I rather reluctantly agreed. He then sent me the following oh-so-sexy text message:
I will send you details in forthcoming correspondence.
Yesterday, I received that highly anticipated correspondence in the form of a text with the time and outdoor meeting location of our date. I then asked:
What’s on the itinerary or is it a mystery?
Norman Nurman: If I tell you, I’d have to, well you know…
Wow. Ding, ding! Maybe Norman Nurman has a few tricks up his sleeve. He then quickly followed with:
Oh hey, do you eat meat?
Enter my roommate, Parker, the Will to my Grace. Parker brilliantly proposed that I play into Norman’s little innuendo game, so I responded with a cheeky…
If I tell you, I’d have to, well you know…
Quickly followed by:
P.S. Yes, I eat meat.
Parker and I felt sure that whatever his response, it would be a sign of whether or not he could really handle a sweet but truly sassy woman like myself.
And his response was:
Good thing you’re cute Miss Smarty Pants! ;-)
Uh- fatal error. Disappointing at best. What does that even mean? Well, golly gee! I’m gonna gitcha, Miss Smarty Pants! Wow, Norman. I'm really shakin' in my boots.
Some might say my standards are too high. He’s just trying to be witty. …and failing. Suggestive banter is far from the key to my heart. I’m an outgoing girl. I am highly compatible with socially awkward introverts. I guess I’m just hoping for a feisty, passionate heart underneath the timid façade. I love a geek! I am a geek! But I guess I love it more when my beloved geek doesn't push to be something he or she is not. When you try to act so much cooler than you are, it usually rings false. Regardless, I have it on good authority that one thing can be said for Norman Nurman and his tame breed.
They’re tigers in the sack.
Wish me luck! I think I’m gonna need it…
Yours Truly,
Sara
6.26.2008
Let’s Talk About Sex
Dear Swing Enthusiast,
I think it’s time I come clean.
If you reread all of my posts to date again and again out of sheer swing enthusiasm (not that I do that), you might come to certain conclusions about the type of girl I am. My mother recently put it best when she said I clearly came off as “wicked horny” throughout The Swing Diaries.
Yes, my mother says that type of thing, much to my chagrin.
I know what you’re thinking. Why on earth did I tell me mother about my secret sexy swing blog? All I can say is that she’s not like other mothers. She’s a realist and enjoys reading about my romantic misadventures. Regardless, I was a little aghast at her comment- mostly because it came from Mom, but also because I didn’t realize that was the prevailing message I was leaving with some readers. Sure, I experience lust as much as the next swinger, but it certainly wasn’t the driving force in my swing life and otherwise.
Ok, maybe it is…
But not the way you think! On one of our first hot chocolate chats, Apple Guy and I started talking about sex. Because apparently I can’t wait to move the topic of conversation into the bedroom! (I’m starting to see my mother’s point.) I told Apple Guy then, and I maintain now, that I am all talk. I put it this way exactly: “Dirty mind. Clean body.”
It’s a frustrating existence lately for the girl with her mind in the bedroom and her bod in the books. How many bisexuals do you know that technically qualify as virgins?
There. I said it. The “V” word. I used to embrace the “V” word. It meant I was waiting for someone special. Meanwhile, my mother, among many of my other friends, is getting nervous that I’ll be locked at the ankles until I’m 30, and has now taken to blatantly suggesting I go out and “get laid,” while I adamantly insist that the first time has got to be for love. Isn’t it usually the daughter who just wants to have fun while the mother implores her to wait for someone special? Our relationship is an unconventional one at best.
The thing is, I want to have sex. I do. I admit it. Guilty! Very, very guilty. Who am I kidding? Even my mother can tell! And I’m no stranger to the female orgasm, let me just you. It really all boils down to the fact that I just haven’t found the right guy. Let me explain…
My first boyfriend was amazing. It was my first semester of college in my freshman year. He was funny, talented, attentive, and a senior! I was very young, and he and I both knew I wasn’t ready. So, it didn’t happen before I trampled on his heart and ended the relationship by transferring to a different school across state.
My second boyfriend was a sweetheart. It was my sophomore and junior years of college. He, too, was a senior and then a post-grad. He was shy, dorky, super-attentive, and sensitive. Very, very sensitive. Let’s just say the prospect of intercourse could overwhelm him more often then not and we never ended up crossing the official finish line through no fault of my own. We were together for a year and half and did not seal the deal…
Hey, I did my part!
Then, as my mother might say (sorry, Mom, but you would), I “got hit by the lesbian bus.” Oh boy, did I! Much to my surprise and delight, I fell in love with a girl just before graduation and, by lesbian standards and even my own, am by no means a v*****. However, by straight standards, all that stuff’s just foreplay!
So, I find myself in a bind. I didn’t realize quite the bind I was in until shortly after my breakup when my good friend Dalia said:
Oh my god! If you're with a guy next, what are you gonna tell him?
Me: Umm… what do you mean? Most guys think girl on girl action is hot, and if it bothers him then he’s an assho—
Dalia: No. Uh, hello! You’re a virgin!
Me: So? It’s not like I’m saving myself for marriage or anything. Isn’t purity somewhat desirable anymore?
Dalia: Not at 25 it’s not. Sara, you cannot tell some guy you’ve never had sex. He’ll run, Sara. He will run!
I let Dalia detail her plan for me to find the first man I met in a bar, despite the fact that I don’t really drink (yeah, I’ve got this abstinence thing down), only to “get it over with” with said mystery man. I told Dalia I thought her plan was ridiculous, and that honesty was obviously the best policy. Let them run! I’m not a prude, nor am I strumpet. I have always followed my heart, and have nothing to hide as a result. But the seeds of doubt had been planted in my mind…
Naturally, I bought a sex book. Two actually. I suddenly thought that maybe I was ill-equipped to meet the demands of the modern man. I panicked and bought How to Be a Great Lover and You Want Me to Do What? on Amazon. When I received the books in the mail at work of all places, Peggy and the girls were captivated. Truth be told, I hardly touched the books, especial the particularly graphic one. Meanwhile, my books got past from cubicle to cubicle wrapped in a big, boring spreadsheet, instead of the traditional brown wrapper popular circa 1950. Apparently, I’m not the only lady who’s thinking impure thoughts. To top it off, my mother absconded with both books in my precious sex library when she came to help me move recently, sighting that she could put them to use long before I hoped to.
Everyone’s a critic.
So, here I am faced with a sea full of swingers. You remember swing, right? It’s the official topic of this blog in case you forgot. Among my prospects at the dance studio, you’ve got the bashful, sweetly bearded Grisly Adam, the so-boring-I-keep-forgetting-to-tell-you-about-him Norman Nurman, the hypnotically seductive Commie, the blog-favorite Apple Guy, and the old, rusty hard-on that is The Chief. To tell you the truth, if I ever for one second considered The Chief as a viable option for me, it was because the idea of a mature, experienced, hopefully skilled man wasn’t exactly unattractive given my suddenly alarming situation. Try as I might to ignore Dalia’s voice inside my head, I couldn’t kick the idea that male attention was something that now had to be worried about.
I can’t help thinking that subconsciously this is why I started the blog- to sort out, record, and convey this particular journey. It may sound corny, but I, in fact, think that my experience- or lack thereof- is wonderfully human. From what I hear, I should count myself lucky that I have no regrets. I am not afraid to risk my heart and body, but not without just cause. Despite appearances in this blog entry, my mother taught me never to settle or succumb to peer pressure. A quarter of a century into life, I’m still sticking to that advice.
Sorry, Mom.
Sincerely,
-Sara
I think it’s time I come clean.
If you reread all of my posts to date again and again out of sheer swing enthusiasm (not that I do that), you might come to certain conclusions about the type of girl I am. My mother recently put it best when she said I clearly came off as “wicked horny” throughout The Swing Diaries.
Yes, my mother says that type of thing, much to my chagrin.
I know what you’re thinking. Why on earth did I tell me mother about my secret sexy swing blog? All I can say is that she’s not like other mothers. She’s a realist and enjoys reading about my romantic misadventures. Regardless, I was a little aghast at her comment- mostly because it came from Mom, but also because I didn’t realize that was the prevailing message I was leaving with some readers. Sure, I experience lust as much as the next swinger, but it certainly wasn’t the driving force in my swing life and otherwise.
Ok, maybe it is…
But not the way you think! On one of our first hot chocolate chats, Apple Guy and I started talking about sex. Because apparently I can’t wait to move the topic of conversation into the bedroom! (I’m starting to see my mother’s point.) I told Apple Guy then, and I maintain now, that I am all talk. I put it this way exactly: “Dirty mind. Clean body.”
It’s a frustrating existence lately for the girl with her mind in the bedroom and her bod in the books. How many bisexuals do you know that technically qualify as virgins?
There. I said it. The “V” word. I used to embrace the “V” word. It meant I was waiting for someone special. Meanwhile, my mother, among many of my other friends, is getting nervous that I’ll be locked at the ankles until I’m 30, and has now taken to blatantly suggesting I go out and “get laid,” while I adamantly insist that the first time has got to be for love. Isn’t it usually the daughter who just wants to have fun while the mother implores her to wait for someone special? Our relationship is an unconventional one at best.
The thing is, I want to have sex. I do. I admit it. Guilty! Very, very guilty. Who am I kidding? Even my mother can tell! And I’m no stranger to the female orgasm, let me just you. It really all boils down to the fact that I just haven’t found the right guy. Let me explain…
My first boyfriend was amazing. It was my first semester of college in my freshman year. He was funny, talented, attentive, and a senior! I was very young, and he and I both knew I wasn’t ready. So, it didn’t happen before I trampled on his heart and ended the relationship by transferring to a different school across state.
My second boyfriend was a sweetheart. It was my sophomore and junior years of college. He, too, was a senior and then a post-grad. He was shy, dorky, super-attentive, and sensitive. Very, very sensitive. Let’s just say the prospect of intercourse could overwhelm him more often then not and we never ended up crossing the official finish line through no fault of my own. We were together for a year and half and did not seal the deal…
Hey, I did my part!
Then, as my mother might say (sorry, Mom, but you would), I “got hit by the lesbian bus.” Oh boy, did I! Much to my surprise and delight, I fell in love with a girl just before graduation and, by lesbian standards and even my own, am by no means a v*****. However, by straight standards, all that stuff’s just foreplay!
So, I find myself in a bind. I didn’t realize quite the bind I was in until shortly after my breakup when my good friend Dalia said:
Oh my god! If you're with a guy next, what are you gonna tell him?
Me: Umm… what do you mean? Most guys think girl on girl action is hot, and if it bothers him then he’s an assho—
Dalia: No. Uh, hello! You’re a virgin!
Me: So? It’s not like I’m saving myself for marriage or anything. Isn’t purity somewhat desirable anymore?
Dalia: Not at 25 it’s not. Sara, you cannot tell some guy you’ve never had sex. He’ll run, Sara. He will run!
I let Dalia detail her plan for me to find the first man I met in a bar, despite the fact that I don’t really drink (yeah, I’ve got this abstinence thing down), only to “get it over with” with said mystery man. I told Dalia I thought her plan was ridiculous, and that honesty was obviously the best policy. Let them run! I’m not a prude, nor am I strumpet. I have always followed my heart, and have nothing to hide as a result. But the seeds of doubt had been planted in my mind…
Naturally, I bought a sex book. Two actually. I suddenly thought that maybe I was ill-equipped to meet the demands of the modern man. I panicked and bought How to Be a Great Lover and You Want Me to Do What? on Amazon. When I received the books in the mail at work of all places, Peggy and the girls were captivated. Truth be told, I hardly touched the books, especial the particularly graphic one. Meanwhile, my books got past from cubicle to cubicle wrapped in a big, boring spreadsheet, instead of the traditional brown wrapper popular circa 1950. Apparently, I’m not the only lady who’s thinking impure thoughts. To top it off, my mother absconded with both books in my precious sex library when she came to help me move recently, sighting that she could put them to use long before I hoped to.
Everyone’s a critic.
So, here I am faced with a sea full of swingers. You remember swing, right? It’s the official topic of this blog in case you forgot. Among my prospects at the dance studio, you’ve got the bashful, sweetly bearded Grisly Adam, the so-boring-I-keep-forgetting-to-tell-you-about-him Norman Nurman, the hypnotically seductive Commie, the blog-favorite Apple Guy, and the old, rusty hard-on that is The Chief. To tell you the truth, if I ever for one second considered The Chief as a viable option for me, it was because the idea of a mature, experienced, hopefully skilled man wasn’t exactly unattractive given my suddenly alarming situation. Try as I might to ignore Dalia’s voice inside my head, I couldn’t kick the idea that male attention was something that now had to be worried about.
I can’t help thinking that subconsciously this is why I started the blog- to sort out, record, and convey this particular journey. It may sound corny, but I, in fact, think that my experience- or lack thereof- is wonderfully human. From what I hear, I should count myself lucky that I have no regrets. I am not afraid to risk my heart and body, but not without just cause. Despite appearances in this blog entry, my mother taught me never to settle or succumb to peer pressure. A quarter of a century into life, I’m still sticking to that advice.
Sorry, Mom.
Sincerely,
-Sara
6.19.2008
When Things Fall Apart
Dear Swing Enthusiast,
What happens to a blogger when she stops posting and all but disappears?
Chances are things fell apart. I'm reading When Things Fall Apart right now. It's a book that was recommended to me a long time ago by a person I decided didn't know what she was talking about. Grudges die hard, and I am still a little too proud to admit this woman has much to offer the world besides her enormous ego. However, I am reading the book…
Since last we spoke, so much has happened. Remember in my very first post how I referenced my fresh break-up and my plans to move out of our domestic bliss in the summer? Well, all that has finally come to fruition. I am single and living single. Right around the same time the move from the boom of the metropolis to the outskirts of urban decay took place, I also lost my job. Well, one of the three jobs. The one that gave me a sense of security. The one that paid the bills. The one where my best-swing-friend Peggy works. To top it off, I proceeded to fall down a rather inflexible set of stairs, bruising my derrière so badly I could not dance for weeks.
Simply put: Things fell apart.
Enter a deep, dark, all-consuming depression, which put me out of commission as an artist, as a dancer, as a writer, and as a person. I hit bottom. There were several dramatically weepy dials made to Mom. My status bars on Facebook and G-chat were filled with nothing but martyrdom. There was mind-boggling binge eating! (Ok, let’s face it; there continues to be mind-boggling binge eating.) I actually considered becoming a professional dominatrix! Things truly fell apart.
When things fall apart, my book recommends giving up hope. According to Buddhist teachings, accepting one’s current circumstances and emotions, whether perceived as positive or negative, is the only way to attain true contentment. Things will fall apart again and again. Security is nothing but an illusion our society chases at the expense of compassion.
Fucking depressing, no?
About half way through the book, my outlook started to change. It wasn’t that I felt content so much as I felt free. Since security was a figment of my fantasy life, why did I or anyone else need to grasp at that illusion? Let me give you an example…
As you all know, Apple Guy is the king of the mixed signal. This guy really plays it hot and cold. Or at least warm and tepid. Normally, I would just write off the computer fetish man. As my mother would say, he would, “fall off my planet.” When someone falls off your planet, it entails ignoring him or her as though he or she ceased to exist (this, of course, excludes rampantly talking behind the offender’s back in order to fully dissect, understand, and convey to others the ways in which he or she has wronged you). My mother and I seem to make a sport of pushing selected former friends, lovers and family members off the cliff at the edge of our surprisingly flat planet. It’s a sort-of-therapeutic, quasi-celebratory bridge burning at the end of a disappointing relationship to help rectify our shattered sense of security. It’s really rather nice.
However, I couldn’t seem to successfully get Apple Guy to shove off my roadmap, despite the fact that I was always being reminded-- through innuendo or direct hit-- that he’s just not that into me. Even Peggy served as a constant reminder. She simply cannot give up on the notion that Apple Guy and I are going to shag like rabbits in fuzzy, domestic bliss one of these days. And if he doesn’t make it with me, she hopes he makes it with Laura, the beautiful Asian girl for whom he historically pines. Thanks, Peg. If not me, then the incredibly beautiful one he actually wants. Nice.
Once I brought up Apple Guy’s affection for Laura with him. He began to get misty at the thought and embarrassment of Laura and everyone else presuming they knew how he felt and perhaps laughing at what he had already determined was an unrequited wish. I couldn’t help but be moved by his genuine vulnerability. I couldn’t blame Peggy for wanting to see Mr. Apple happy and in love. Apple Guy is wonderful. He’s adorable, sincere, helpful, and generous. He’s a great listener and a true gentleman.
Apparently, gentlemen prefer Asians, not blondes.
So, what if I accepted my current circumstances without trying to escape them? Apple Guy likes me as a friend and enjoys my company. Sometimes we flirt, but that’s as far as it goes. I enjoy AG’s company despite the fact that he’s not attracted to me. Imagine that! A flirtatious, platonic friendship. How can I not accept that? Looking at the facts again, it’s nothing but good news.
Flash forward. Apple Guy and I are in a really good place. He even heroically helped me move! We had dinner together after swing last week. Then he spontaneously took me on a walking tour of downtown sushi restaurants. Figures. He asked me if I wanted to swing by his apartment since it was on the way to the subway. I teased him about the obvious cliché of this proposition, but accepted, despite the butterflies in my stomach caused by that stupid illusion that is hope.
It was awkward, let me just tell you. I had to come right out and say it:
This is awkward.
Apple Guy: It kinda is. Why?
Me: I don’t know.
Apple Guy: Sexual tension…?
I got three letters for you, people: W T F? Seriously, could the signals get any more mixed? I looked around at all the Asian influences in the décor of his bachelor pad; the apartment was practically made of bamboo! My pride coolly answered for me…
Sexual tension? No. I don’t think so.
Peggy would say this was me putting words into his mouth. Perhaps he was trying to confess something to me. When he walked me to the subway that night, Apple Guy became melancholy and said, “You think I’m a bad guy, don’t you?” I felt like a bitter jerk. I tried to explain that it was just that I found him confusing and was confused about my own feelings, but I know my words failed me. We both parted feeling insecure.
Last night was a breakthrough swing night for me. I moved my dancing up to the next level. Woody Bellagamba exclaimed, “Sara is on fire tonight!” Woody’s been the practice session DJ lately. He likes to lead a dance for all the people who are having a birthday that week; the few birthday boys and girls dance in the middle of the encircling crowd, while brave advanced dancers cut in and out of partner-dancing with them. At Apple Guy’s urging, I danced in the birthday dance with a birthday boy for the very first time. It was thrilling! I followed up this spotlight turn by brazenly asking the apparently girlfriendless Grisly Adam to dance. Grisly then asked me to dance the following two dances. There were definitely sparks, my friends!
By the time Apple Guy and I got to walking home, I was like- Apple Who? I was a ball of enthusiastic, overconfident energy, despite a night of dancing hard. I'm pretty sure it appeared as though I was on speed. We loitered for an excessively long time by the subway entrance, leaning on the side of a Best Buy as our spines began to cry. I couldn’t help noticing we were prolonging our time together again. In an effort to accept my current circumstances and resolve our mutual awkwardness, I called Apple Guy on the fact that he was clearly somewhat confused about what he wanted from me. And he proceeded to do something rarely done by men…
He conceded the point. He admitted that he had a little thing for me, but didn’t want to lose his best swing girl and newfound friend. In doing this, he eliminated the cause of my frustration by validating my suspicions and paying me the compliment. In the end, it seems that is all I really wanted.
So, yes, ladies. Maybe he’s just not that into me, but maybe, as Peggy likes to spin it, we’ll, “be sitting on his big red sex couch innocently cutting out paper dolls one day and suddenly someone’s tongue is going be down someone else’s throat!” I have told Apple Guy about this theory and neither of us quite grasp the paper doll aspect, but I think we both understand the distinct possibility in the latter part of her message. I know I honesty felt the urge to jump Apple Guy and kiss him like the sweet red fruit he is during the tail end of last night's enlightening conversation on the street. (Remember, I was practically on speed.) But fear, pride, and confusion stood in my way.
My book would ask some challenging questions at such a pivotal moment. Why do we let fear, pride, doubt, hope, and this endless quest for security make all the decisions for us? Why is validation and praise the only route we seem to take towards happiness? Why does it matter so much whether or not Apple Guy is paying attention to me? When things fall apart, why do we scuttle so much to put all the pieces back together only to have them crumble again and again?
Uh… because it feels deliciously wonderful! Duh.
Yeah, I just can’t seem to finish the book.
Love,
-Sara
P.S. I'll try my best never to leave you for so long again! In honor of my resurrection from blogging death, I am enabling comments on the Swing Diaries. I welcome you to take a moment and join in on the conversation, but remember never to use real names if you happen to know them. I've also gone public! No more password required.
What happens to a blogger when she stops posting and all but disappears?
Chances are things fell apart. I'm reading When Things Fall Apart right now. It's a book that was recommended to me a long time ago by a person I decided didn't know what she was talking about. Grudges die hard, and I am still a little too proud to admit this woman has much to offer the world besides her enormous ego. However, I am reading the book…
Since last we spoke, so much has happened. Remember in my very first post how I referenced my fresh break-up and my plans to move out of our domestic bliss in the summer? Well, all that has finally come to fruition. I am single and living single. Right around the same time the move from the boom of the metropolis to the outskirts of urban decay took place, I also lost my job. Well, one of the three jobs. The one that gave me a sense of security. The one that paid the bills. The one where my best-swing-friend Peggy works. To top it off, I proceeded to fall down a rather inflexible set of stairs, bruising my derrière so badly I could not dance for weeks.
Simply put: Things fell apart.
Enter a deep, dark, all-consuming depression, which put me out of commission as an artist, as a dancer, as a writer, and as a person. I hit bottom. There were several dramatically weepy dials made to Mom. My status bars on Facebook and G-chat were filled with nothing but martyrdom. There was mind-boggling binge eating! (Ok, let’s face it; there continues to be mind-boggling binge eating.) I actually considered becoming a professional dominatrix! Things truly fell apart.
When things fall apart, my book recommends giving up hope. According to Buddhist teachings, accepting one’s current circumstances and emotions, whether perceived as positive or negative, is the only way to attain true contentment. Things will fall apart again and again. Security is nothing but an illusion our society chases at the expense of compassion.
Fucking depressing, no?
About half way through the book, my outlook started to change. It wasn’t that I felt content so much as I felt free. Since security was a figment of my fantasy life, why did I or anyone else need to grasp at that illusion? Let me give you an example…
As you all know, Apple Guy is the king of the mixed signal. This guy really plays it hot and cold. Or at least warm and tepid. Normally, I would just write off the computer fetish man. As my mother would say, he would, “fall off my planet.” When someone falls off your planet, it entails ignoring him or her as though he or she ceased to exist (this, of course, excludes rampantly talking behind the offender’s back in order to fully dissect, understand, and convey to others the ways in which he or she has wronged you). My mother and I seem to make a sport of pushing selected former friends, lovers and family members off the cliff at the edge of our surprisingly flat planet. It’s a sort-of-therapeutic, quasi-celebratory bridge burning at the end of a disappointing relationship to help rectify our shattered sense of security. It’s really rather nice.
However, I couldn’t seem to successfully get Apple Guy to shove off my roadmap, despite the fact that I was always being reminded-- through innuendo or direct hit-- that he’s just not that into me. Even Peggy served as a constant reminder. She simply cannot give up on the notion that Apple Guy and I are going to shag like rabbits in fuzzy, domestic bliss one of these days. And if he doesn’t make it with me, she hopes he makes it with Laura, the beautiful Asian girl for whom he historically pines. Thanks, Peg. If not me, then the incredibly beautiful one he actually wants. Nice.
Once I brought up Apple Guy’s affection for Laura with him. He began to get misty at the thought and embarrassment of Laura and everyone else presuming they knew how he felt and perhaps laughing at what he had already determined was an unrequited wish. I couldn’t help but be moved by his genuine vulnerability. I couldn’t blame Peggy for wanting to see Mr. Apple happy and in love. Apple Guy is wonderful. He’s adorable, sincere, helpful, and generous. He’s a great listener and a true gentleman.
Apparently, gentlemen prefer Asians, not blondes.
So, what if I accepted my current circumstances without trying to escape them? Apple Guy likes me as a friend and enjoys my company. Sometimes we flirt, but that’s as far as it goes. I enjoy AG’s company despite the fact that he’s not attracted to me. Imagine that! A flirtatious, platonic friendship. How can I not accept that? Looking at the facts again, it’s nothing but good news.
Flash forward. Apple Guy and I are in a really good place. He even heroically helped me move! We had dinner together after swing last week. Then he spontaneously took me on a walking tour of downtown sushi restaurants. Figures. He asked me if I wanted to swing by his apartment since it was on the way to the subway. I teased him about the obvious cliché of this proposition, but accepted, despite the butterflies in my stomach caused by that stupid illusion that is hope.
It was awkward, let me just tell you. I had to come right out and say it:
This is awkward.
Apple Guy: It kinda is. Why?
Me: I don’t know.
Apple Guy: Sexual tension…?
I got three letters for you, people: W T F? Seriously, could the signals get any more mixed? I looked around at all the Asian influences in the décor of his bachelor pad; the apartment was practically made of bamboo! My pride coolly answered for me…
Sexual tension? No. I don’t think so.
Peggy would say this was me putting words into his mouth. Perhaps he was trying to confess something to me. When he walked me to the subway that night, Apple Guy became melancholy and said, “You think I’m a bad guy, don’t you?” I felt like a bitter jerk. I tried to explain that it was just that I found him confusing and was confused about my own feelings, but I know my words failed me. We both parted feeling insecure.
Last night was a breakthrough swing night for me. I moved my dancing up to the next level. Woody Bellagamba exclaimed, “Sara is on fire tonight!” Woody’s been the practice session DJ lately. He likes to lead a dance for all the people who are having a birthday that week; the few birthday boys and girls dance in the middle of the encircling crowd, while brave advanced dancers cut in and out of partner-dancing with them. At Apple Guy’s urging, I danced in the birthday dance with a birthday boy for the very first time. It was thrilling! I followed up this spotlight turn by brazenly asking the apparently girlfriendless Grisly Adam to dance. Grisly then asked me to dance the following two dances. There were definitely sparks, my friends!
By the time Apple Guy and I got to walking home, I was like- Apple Who? I was a ball of enthusiastic, overconfident energy, despite a night of dancing hard. I'm pretty sure it appeared as though I was on speed. We loitered for an excessively long time by the subway entrance, leaning on the side of a Best Buy as our spines began to cry. I couldn’t help noticing we were prolonging our time together again. In an effort to accept my current circumstances and resolve our mutual awkwardness, I called Apple Guy on the fact that he was clearly somewhat confused about what he wanted from me. And he proceeded to do something rarely done by men…
He conceded the point. He admitted that he had a little thing for me, but didn’t want to lose his best swing girl and newfound friend. In doing this, he eliminated the cause of my frustration by validating my suspicions and paying me the compliment. In the end, it seems that is all I really wanted.
So, yes, ladies. Maybe he’s just not that into me, but maybe, as Peggy likes to spin it, we’ll, “be sitting on his big red sex couch innocently cutting out paper dolls one day and suddenly someone’s tongue is going be down someone else’s throat!” I have told Apple Guy about this theory and neither of us quite grasp the paper doll aspect, but I think we both understand the distinct possibility in the latter part of her message. I know I honesty felt the urge to jump Apple Guy and kiss him like the sweet red fruit he is during the tail end of last night's enlightening conversation on the street. (Remember, I was practically on speed.) But fear, pride, and confusion stood in my way.
My book would ask some challenging questions at such a pivotal moment. Why do we let fear, pride, doubt, hope, and this endless quest for security make all the decisions for us? Why is validation and praise the only route we seem to take towards happiness? Why does it matter so much whether or not Apple Guy is paying attention to me? When things fall apart, why do we scuttle so much to put all the pieces back together only to have them crumble again and again?
Uh… because it feels deliciously wonderful! Duh.
Yeah, I just can’t seem to finish the book.
Love,
-Sara
P.S. I'll try my best never to leave you for so long again! In honor of my resurrection from blogging death, I am enabling comments on the Swing Diaries. I welcome you to take a moment and join in on the conversation, but remember never to use real names if you happen to know them. I've also gone public! No more password required.
5.15.2008
Absence Makes the Heart Grow Fonder
Dear Swing Enthusiasts,
I know what you’re thinking. Where has she been!? Swingin’ ain’t always easy you know! I promise you all a luxuriously long tale of dance intrigue this weekend. I have much to tell...
Yours,
-Sara
I know what you’re thinking. Where has she been!? Swingin’ ain’t always easy you know! I promise you all a luxuriously long tale of dance intrigue this weekend. I have much to tell...
Yours,
-Sara
4.24.2008
Sara Swing Learns a Lesson
Dear Swing Enthusiast,
I don't really have much to report about last night. I had fun! It looks like Grisly Adam has a girlfriend, Apple Guy continues to send mixed signals despite our "break-up," and I may never master the devilishly simple eight-count swing out. But none of that got to me! Well, at least not for too long. Because the fact that I was actually successfully tossed through the air multiple times by my practice partners- in conjunction with one other critical piece of intel- really made my night...
The Chief never showed up.
I don't know how, why, or where the heck he was, but, beyond not wishing any harm befell him, I was thrilled he took the night off. New people approached me to dance! I felt like a kid out past a dirty-ol'-man-imposed curfew. I felt young and vibrant and free. And here's a news flash: I AM young and vibrant and free!
I guess we can all use a reminder every once and a while.
Sincerely,
Sara
P.S. Omigod. My first PS! Just thought I'd let all you diaries enthusiasts know that I'll be hitting the studio twice a week beginning next week. That means two entries a week. Double the blogging; double the neurtotic, sassy fun!
I don't really have much to report about last night. I had fun! It looks like Grisly Adam has a girlfriend, Apple Guy continues to send mixed signals despite our "break-up," and I may never master the devilishly simple eight-count swing out. But none of that got to me! Well, at least not for too long. Because the fact that I was actually successfully tossed through the air multiple times by my practice partners- in conjunction with one other critical piece of intel- really made my night...
The Chief never showed up.
I don't know how, why, or where the heck he was, but, beyond not wishing any harm befell him, I was thrilled he took the night off. New people approached me to dance! I felt like a kid out past a dirty-ol'-man-imposed curfew. I felt young and vibrant and free. And here's a news flash: I AM young and vibrant and free!
I guess we can all use a reminder every once and a while.
Sincerely,
Sara
P.S. Omigod. My first PS! Just thought I'd let all you diaries enthusiasts know that I'll be hitting the studio twice a week beginning next week. That means two entries a week. Double the blogging; double the neurtotic, sassy fun!
4.10.2008
Nobody Puts Peggy In the Corner
Dear Swing Enthusiast,
Last night was not without its triumphs. I wore one of those trendy shorts onesies with footless tights and heels. HOT! Unfortunately, the ensemble’s magic worked best on The Chief, whose response to the outfit was to call me a “tramp!” True story.
Cowboy Girl and Gal Pal were in attendance, along with Apple Guy, who danced quite a few with me. Mr. Apple and I did some of the best dancing of our swing lives last night. But my best turn was with the mysterious Grisly Adam. Let’s face it. I have a bit of a crush on the shy but steady bearded boy who’s just a little bit behind my swing level, giving me an edge of confidence that puts ideas in my head. Grisly only comes out of hiding occasionally, looking like it took all of his nerve to come and ask me to dance. This could be because (a) he covertly dances with his girlfriend most of the night and only looks for some other partnerless girl when she goes to the bathroom, or (b) because he thinks I’m super cute! I have nothing more to say on the matter other than he peaked my interest last night, so today I’m hoping for option b.
I actually don’t want to talk about myself right now though. Shocking, I know. I do want to talk about one of my favorite people in the whole swing universe, Peggy. I met Peggy a little over a year ago when I started working for her, and it was love at first sight. Peggy is a fashion icon to the girls in our workplace. Every day she breezes in looking like a vintage fashion plate from the 20s, 30s, 40s, or 50s, often wearing a hat of her own crafting. Peggy is not only fabulously beautiful and fashionable, but she is also truly unassuming about her glamour. She’s bighearted, modest, mischievous, witty, sensitive, sincere, and a terrific dancer to boot! Simply put: She is dazzling inside and out.
So why would someone this amazing have any trouble getting someone to ask her to dance?
That’s the question Apple Guy and I were faced with last night when we found ourselves once again walking to the subway together. (Please try to keep in mind that he is admittedly only attracted to Asian women before your minds go running to a seedy romantic gutter in which they do not belong!) On our familiar walk, Apple Guy mentioned that last week (when I was scarcely speaking to him) he asked Peggy to dance with him for the very first time. Originally, he asked her if she was just taking a rest on the sidelines on purpose, as most advanced follows, such as herself, are on the dance floor all night long. However, much to his surprise, she responded that she, in fact, rarely got asked to dance.
Enter the rakish, handsome, exceedingly popular swing teacher, “Woody Bellagamba.” AKA: Peggy’s husband. I know, I know, Woody and Peggy’s combined names may seem too quaint a bit of assonance to bear for all the days of this blog. Trust me; there was just no getting around it.
Now, Woody Bellagamba is 100% extraordinary in his own right. He’s a marvelous professional swing dancer with his own flair for vintage fashion. In sexy opposition to each other, at first glance, Woody is a rougher, roguish, definitively male answer to Peggy’s lady-like demeanor. They’re like a grown-up version Sandy and Danny from Grease, minus the singing and camp. Whereas Peggy excels in all things ballroom, Woody prefers the down and dirty, fast-paced world of lindy hop. They’re the Green Acres couple of the dance studio. Hold on a minute while I think of another old school film or tv reference to better explain how I see their relationship. He’s Mork; she’s Mindy. He’s the Ghost; she’s Mrs. Muir. He’s Oscar; she’s Felix. He’s Scarecrow; she’s Mrs. King. He’s Rock; she’s Doris. He’s Cagney; she’s Lacey. If Mary Tyler Moore could date the Fonze, you’d get Peggy and Woody. Get it? It works. It’s hot!
…to the untrained eye!
Actually, they’re smoldering in any light. But when you see Woody cutting a rug all night with every lovely swing enthusiast tart on the floor, while Peggy waits in hope of a partner on the side, you start to wonder. Now don’t get me wrong; they do dance together. Because it draws on their combined dance fortes, they dance a particularly mean Peabody. But whether Woody is aware of it or not, he’s like a rooster in a hen house when it comes to our little dance studio. All the women want him. Hell, last time I checked, I wanted him! (Don’t worry, Peggy. It’s a purely figurative lust.) So, while Woody happily swings with all of his students, Peggy, who is also clearly adored by her own male following, has a huge, invisible, rubber stamp on her hat that says:
Property of Mr. Woody Bellagamba. Hands off!
It’s sad, but true. You can look at her perfect porcelain features, but there’s a general sense that you can’t touch ‘em. Apple Guy couldn’t help but feel as though he was trespassing when he first approached her last week. And such is Peggy’s plight. She follows her husband to many a dance function within their charming swing community, and often watches him dance with the rest of the ladies in attendance from afar. But even though Apple Guy and I felt distressed when we realized that Peggy was not getting all the dance happiness she deserves, it didn’t diminish one ounce of the delight we each felt in being or, in his case, becoming her friend. I told Apple Guy about how Peggy started taking advanced ballroom classes with a competitor of our regular dance studio- someplace where there wasn’t so much social red tape to wade through. We both thought- Good for her!. Even Apple Guy, who barely knows her, can see that Peggy is a particularly amazing woman. Her qualities are, in fact, sometimes intimidating. And to all those cowards who let some preposterous idea about Woody (who, I must admit, I adore) or fear of a beautiful woman stop you from asking such a fine lady to dance, I say you made the right decision. Seriously, well done.
She’s way too good for you.
Love,
Sara
Last night was not without its triumphs. I wore one of those trendy shorts onesies with footless tights and heels. HOT! Unfortunately, the ensemble’s magic worked best on The Chief, whose response to the outfit was to call me a “tramp!” True story.
Cowboy Girl and Gal Pal were in attendance, along with Apple Guy, who danced quite a few with me. Mr. Apple and I did some of the best dancing of our swing lives last night. But my best turn was with the mysterious Grisly Adam. Let’s face it. I have a bit of a crush on the shy but steady bearded boy who’s just a little bit behind my swing level, giving me an edge of confidence that puts ideas in my head. Grisly only comes out of hiding occasionally, looking like it took all of his nerve to come and ask me to dance. This could be because (a) he covertly dances with his girlfriend most of the night and only looks for some other partnerless girl when she goes to the bathroom, or (b) because he thinks I’m super cute! I have nothing more to say on the matter other than he peaked my interest last night, so today I’m hoping for option b.
I actually don’t want to talk about myself right now though. Shocking, I know. I do want to talk about one of my favorite people in the whole swing universe, Peggy. I met Peggy a little over a year ago when I started working for her, and it was love at first sight. Peggy is a fashion icon to the girls in our workplace. Every day she breezes in looking like a vintage fashion plate from the 20s, 30s, 40s, or 50s, often wearing a hat of her own crafting. Peggy is not only fabulously beautiful and fashionable, but she is also truly unassuming about her glamour. She’s bighearted, modest, mischievous, witty, sensitive, sincere, and a terrific dancer to boot! Simply put: She is dazzling inside and out.
So why would someone this amazing have any trouble getting someone to ask her to dance?
That’s the question Apple Guy and I were faced with last night when we found ourselves once again walking to the subway together. (Please try to keep in mind that he is admittedly only attracted to Asian women before your minds go running to a seedy romantic gutter in which they do not belong!) On our familiar walk, Apple Guy mentioned that last week (when I was scarcely speaking to him) he asked Peggy to dance with him for the very first time. Originally, he asked her if she was just taking a rest on the sidelines on purpose, as most advanced follows, such as herself, are on the dance floor all night long. However, much to his surprise, she responded that she, in fact, rarely got asked to dance.
Enter the rakish, handsome, exceedingly popular swing teacher, “Woody Bellagamba.” AKA: Peggy’s husband. I know, I know, Woody and Peggy’s combined names may seem too quaint a bit of assonance to bear for all the days of this blog. Trust me; there was just no getting around it.
Now, Woody Bellagamba is 100% extraordinary in his own right. He’s a marvelous professional swing dancer with his own flair for vintage fashion. In sexy opposition to each other, at first glance, Woody is a rougher, roguish, definitively male answer to Peggy’s lady-like demeanor. They’re like a grown-up version Sandy and Danny from Grease, minus the singing and camp. Whereas Peggy excels in all things ballroom, Woody prefers the down and dirty, fast-paced world of lindy hop. They’re the Green Acres couple of the dance studio. Hold on a minute while I think of another old school film or tv reference to better explain how I see their relationship. He’s Mork; she’s Mindy. He’s the Ghost; she’s Mrs. Muir. He’s Oscar; she’s Felix. He’s Scarecrow; she’s Mrs. King. He’s Rock; she’s Doris. He’s Cagney; she’s Lacey. If Mary Tyler Moore could date the Fonze, you’d get Peggy and Woody. Get it? It works. It’s hot!
…to the untrained eye!
Actually, they’re smoldering in any light. But when you see Woody cutting a rug all night with every lovely swing enthusiast tart on the floor, while Peggy waits in hope of a partner on the side, you start to wonder. Now don’t get me wrong; they do dance together. Because it draws on their combined dance fortes, they dance a particularly mean Peabody. But whether Woody is aware of it or not, he’s like a rooster in a hen house when it comes to our little dance studio. All the women want him. Hell, last time I checked, I wanted him! (Don’t worry, Peggy. It’s a purely figurative lust.) So, while Woody happily swings with all of his students, Peggy, who is also clearly adored by her own male following, has a huge, invisible, rubber stamp on her hat that says:
Property of Mr. Woody Bellagamba. Hands off!
It’s sad, but true. You can look at her perfect porcelain features, but there’s a general sense that you can’t touch ‘em. Apple Guy couldn’t help but feel as though he was trespassing when he first approached her last week. And such is Peggy’s plight. She follows her husband to many a dance function within their charming swing community, and often watches him dance with the rest of the ladies in attendance from afar. But even though Apple Guy and I felt distressed when we realized that Peggy was not getting all the dance happiness she deserves, it didn’t diminish one ounce of the delight we each felt in being or, in his case, becoming her friend. I told Apple Guy about how Peggy started taking advanced ballroom classes with a competitor of our regular dance studio- someplace where there wasn’t so much social red tape to wade through. We both thought- Good for her!. Even Apple Guy, who barely knows her, can see that Peggy is a particularly amazing woman. Her qualities are, in fact, sometimes intimidating. And to all those cowards who let some preposterous idea about Woody (who, I must admit, I adore) or fear of a beautiful woman stop you from asking such a fine lady to dance, I say you made the right decision. Seriously, well done.
She’s way too good for you.
Love,
Sara
4.03.2008
Chief No Like Cowboy Girl
Dear Swing Enthusiast,
The trouble with having a secret blog about people at swing class is that if you welcome a reader of said blog to join your swing community… well, you’re just asking for trouble.
Sounds like something I would do.
Okay, so I invited a hot lesbian co-worker to swing last Friday. Double entendres aside, I think she had a lot of fun. In fact, I know she did, because she signed up to take swing class regularly this month. So, as we were leaving the studio on Friday, I teasingly mentioned that she might be in next week’s blog entry. The look on her face was something akin to homicidal terror. Not much was said, but the message was clear: Don’t you dare!
My first blog conflict-of-interest dilemma! I both hope and dread it is the first of many. I feel more like a lady-gumshoe-reporter-tough-cookie-Rosalind-Russell-type with a real ethical writing issue to grapple with on Thursday morning when my head clears after a night of swing.
Well, of course I’m going to write about her! She was an integral part of my dance experience last night. A compromise had to be made. So, whether the lady in question understood the terms fully or not, in exchange for getting to choose her own blog name, I’m writing her in! And her name is… (drum roll, please)…
COWBOY GIRL
That name could not be more appropriate to the role she played in my dancing life this past week. The title says it all, folks.
On that fateful Friday that Cowboy Girl came to take a free introductory salsa / swing class, she brought a friend, who we’ll call “Tonto,” to join in on the fun. Cowboy Girl, Tonto and I were having a ball delving into the unknown world of salsa. Cowboy Girl was really serious about learning the dance, while Tonto was kinda-sorta-maybe serious about getting a date with the coat check boy. As the swing class began and all of our mutual priorities briefly aligned at the introduction of something new, I found myself in the middle of a Sara sandwich, with a slice of Tonto and Cowboy Girl on either side. We were literally a swinging threesome when I looked up to see none other than The Chief staring at me from across the bustling room of beginners. I was a little incensed by the unnerving, cocky grin dancing across his face. Let him wonder about my compromising position, I thought. I was there to have fun with no strings attached for a change.
Soon after we began the swing portion of the evening, our lovely swing teacher recognized that I was an advanced dancer and took me as her partner to illustrate the moves she was teaching. I like to call this token gesture of flattery being the “Vanna White” of the class. So, there I was turning blank squares into vowels and consonants with my bare hands while the Chief bore his eyes into my skull for the entire class. I tried not look at him, and every time I did casually peek over at the ubiquitous Chief, there he would be, practically undressing me with his beady, elderly eyes. Remember when I thought we could just be friends? Boy, was I wrong!
Just before the class ended, I was trying to plan my escape from dancing with The Chief at the top of the impending practice session. I decided I would simply barrel toward Cowboy Girl as soon as my Vanna duties were over. When I cast a furtive glance in The Chief’s direction to see if my plan stood a chance, he was gone. Perhaps he’d given up on me after all. A wave of bittersweet relief washed over me. I spent the rest of the evening delightedly swinging with my newbie dance partners without incident.
On my own that night, long after swing had ended, I received a text message from The Chief. All it said was:
new bo?
I didn’t really know what to say. I didn’t want to lie, but I didn’t want to give him the idea that I was still open to his advances. In the end, I didn’t respond at all.
Last night’s regular swing schedule was lovely for the most part. Cowboy Girl signed up a femme friend we’ll call “Gal Pal” to take a month of swing class along side her. We all had great classes and practiced on into the night. I paid no special attention to, but did not entirely ignore Apple Guy, much to Peggy’s vexation. Apparently, some people think Apple Guy and I still have a chance. I wouldn’t bet the ranch on it, ladies. I danced with some terrific partners and even deluded myself into thinking a good number of them desired me. (This blog has truly affected my head.) The only problem to speak of last night was The Chief.
The man just won’t quit! He couldn't help noticing that Cowboy Girl and Gal Pal made a very cute couple. Suddenly, Cowboy Girl was no longer a threat in his mind. Some pal you are, Cowboy! The Chief then stole at least five too many dances from me even when he was too tired to lead them properly, and asked me out on a date again to boot! When I declined, he started to give me the third degree about my plans on the night in question. Thankfully, my whole posse made their exit before there was a throw-down.
When I think back on my relationship with The Chief thus far- at first thinking our camaraderie was wholly innocent, then pushing past any awkward discomfort to forge an unconventional friendship, and now feeling loathsome and trapped by his sheer presence- I am full of regret. Wouldn’t the poor Chief be sad to know what a joke I think his advances are now? I feel bad for him. He’s so lonely and he’s convinced himself that I’m his dream girl... or at least his dream lay. I have to remind myself to be flattered. At least I’m somebody’s dream girl, right?
Yours truly,
Sara
The trouble with having a secret blog about people at swing class is that if you welcome a reader of said blog to join your swing community… well, you’re just asking for trouble.
Sounds like something I would do.
Okay, so I invited a hot lesbian co-worker to swing last Friday. Double entendres aside, I think she had a lot of fun. In fact, I know she did, because she signed up to take swing class regularly this month. So, as we were leaving the studio on Friday, I teasingly mentioned that she might be in next week’s blog entry. The look on her face was something akin to homicidal terror. Not much was said, but the message was clear: Don’t you dare!
My first blog conflict-of-interest dilemma! I both hope and dread it is the first of many. I feel more like a lady-gumshoe-reporter-tough-cookie-Rosalind-Russell-type with a real ethical writing issue to grapple with on Thursday morning when my head clears after a night of swing.
Well, of course I’m going to write about her! She was an integral part of my dance experience last night. A compromise had to be made. So, whether the lady in question understood the terms fully or not, in exchange for getting to choose her own blog name, I’m writing her in! And her name is… (drum roll, please)…
COWBOY GIRL
That name could not be more appropriate to the role she played in my dancing life this past week. The title says it all, folks.
On that fateful Friday that Cowboy Girl came to take a free introductory salsa / swing class, she brought a friend, who we’ll call “Tonto,” to join in on the fun. Cowboy Girl, Tonto and I were having a ball delving into the unknown world of salsa. Cowboy Girl was really serious about learning the dance, while Tonto was kinda-sorta-maybe serious about getting a date with the coat check boy. As the swing class began and all of our mutual priorities briefly aligned at the introduction of something new, I found myself in the middle of a Sara sandwich, with a slice of Tonto and Cowboy Girl on either side. We were literally a swinging threesome when I looked up to see none other than The Chief staring at me from across the bustling room of beginners. I was a little incensed by the unnerving, cocky grin dancing across his face. Let him wonder about my compromising position, I thought. I was there to have fun with no strings attached for a change.
Soon after we began the swing portion of the evening, our lovely swing teacher recognized that I was an advanced dancer and took me as her partner to illustrate the moves she was teaching. I like to call this token gesture of flattery being the “Vanna White” of the class. So, there I was turning blank squares into vowels and consonants with my bare hands while the Chief bore his eyes into my skull for the entire class. I tried not look at him, and every time I did casually peek over at the ubiquitous Chief, there he would be, practically undressing me with his beady, elderly eyes. Remember when I thought we could just be friends? Boy, was I wrong!
Just before the class ended, I was trying to plan my escape from dancing with The Chief at the top of the impending practice session. I decided I would simply barrel toward Cowboy Girl as soon as my Vanna duties were over. When I cast a furtive glance in The Chief’s direction to see if my plan stood a chance, he was gone. Perhaps he’d given up on me after all. A wave of bittersweet relief washed over me. I spent the rest of the evening delightedly swinging with my newbie dance partners without incident.
On my own that night, long after swing had ended, I received a text message from The Chief. All it said was:
new bo?
I didn’t really know what to say. I didn’t want to lie, but I didn’t want to give him the idea that I was still open to his advances. In the end, I didn’t respond at all.
Last night’s regular swing schedule was lovely for the most part. Cowboy Girl signed up a femme friend we’ll call “Gal Pal” to take a month of swing class along side her. We all had great classes and practiced on into the night. I paid no special attention to, but did not entirely ignore Apple Guy, much to Peggy’s vexation. Apparently, some people think Apple Guy and I still have a chance. I wouldn’t bet the ranch on it, ladies. I danced with some terrific partners and even deluded myself into thinking a good number of them desired me. (This blog has truly affected my head.) The only problem to speak of last night was The Chief.
The man just won’t quit! He couldn't help noticing that Cowboy Girl and Gal Pal made a very cute couple. Suddenly, Cowboy Girl was no longer a threat in his mind. Some pal you are, Cowboy! The Chief then stole at least five too many dances from me even when he was too tired to lead them properly, and asked me out on a date again to boot! When I declined, he started to give me the third degree about my plans on the night in question. Thankfully, my whole posse made their exit before there was a throw-down.
When I think back on my relationship with The Chief thus far- at first thinking our camaraderie was wholly innocent, then pushing past any awkward discomfort to forge an unconventional friendship, and now feeling loathsome and trapped by his sheer presence- I am full of regret. Wouldn’t the poor Chief be sad to know what a joke I think his advances are now? I feel bad for him. He’s so lonely and he’s convinced himself that I’m his dream girl... or at least his dream lay. I have to remind myself to be flattered. At least I’m somebody’s dream girl, right?
Yours truly,
Sara
3.27.2008
He's Just Not That Into Me
Dear Swing Enthusiast,
Apple Guy and I broke up last night. Please disregard my last entry. It was wishful thinking. In a word: denial. In fact, forget everything I ever said about Apple Guy. I was wrong.
The truth is he's just not that into me. I had a teacher who lived by that book, He's Just Not That Into You, which they're now making into a movie starring Scarlett Johansson, Jennifer Aniston, Jennifer Connelly, and Drew Barrymore- you know, women that everybody is into. Give me a break!
It all started on Sunday. After my last entry, I was beginning to suspect Apple Guy was, indeed, just not that into me; however, he seemed determined to prove me wrong. I went to a much-romanticized annual Easter bonnet promenading event with Peggy, wearing one of her amazing hat creations (she's an extraordinary milliner) on loan to me for the day. Much to my surprise, Apple Guy came with his parents to see me in my vintage glory. Ladies and gentlemen, he wanted to introduce me to his parents. The Apple Parents took pictures of Apple Guy and I promenading together. It was as if I was at my own engagement party, but I'd never even kissed the groom. It was weird.
I couldn't get the gesture of dragging his parents across town on a holiday to see me wearing a pretty hat out of my mind. On Monday, while I was daydreaming about Apple Guy, I got a very unexpected text message from The Chief.
The Chief: I dreamt about u in ur easter bonnet / in my dream it was all u were wearing / talk about a happy easter
Unbelievable. You can't just text that to a girl out of the blue! At least attempt to warm me up to such a comment first. Test the waters a little! (Although, I doubt there is anything he could have written that would have made me swoon.) This is, of course, all less than a week after I turned down his offer to whisk me away to Costa Rica to share his vacation and, I can only assume, his bed. The Chief still thinks he has a chance of laying me! The more I look at The Chief, the more I see a dirty old man who I've been blind to for entirely too long. He may smell really, really good and treat my like a princess, but nice words don't mean as much when they come with strings attached. I'd had just about enough!
Last night was pretty uneventful in terms of classroom drama. I had some balance issues when it came to the Charleston and felt generally out of practice, but I enjoyed many exhilarating dances despite my two left feet. Apple Guy, The Chief, a new bashful boy I'll call "Grizzly Adam" (yes, he has a beard), and a host of other leaders asked me to dance. I enjoyed myself immensely!
Apple Guy had to leave the practice session early, because the Apple Parents were still in town. Before he left, we attempted to have a conversation off on the side of practice. Much to Apple Guy's disappointment, I kept getting asked to dance. I had just enough time to ask after his parents and tell him about The Chief’s tawdry text. I danced long after he left and began my solo walk to the subway one exhausted step at a time. Just before I got on the subway, I received a text from Apple Guy. The evidence speaks for itself:
Apple Guy: i had a dream that the chief was wearing nothing but your easter bonnet. creeped me out.
Me: Eewww! You’re disgusting. I love it!
Apple Guy: thought you’d like that. seriously you looked so great on easter. nice to see you having fun.
Me: Hey, I didn’t tell you yet. I found a roommate and I have a move out date of June 1. Big step!
Apple Guy (sent before he read my last text): so, were you watching me to see if i was checking out laura tonight?
Me: What!? Who’s Laura?
Apple Guy: slim, attractive girl in our classes.
Me: The pretty Asian girl?
Apple Guy: yes. i felt like you were watching me very closely when we were talking after class.
Me: I honestly have no idea what you are talking about.
Apple Guy: sorry. it’s just me being paranoid. i didn’t mean to ruin our conversation about the chief’s naked easter romp. ignore me.
But, of course, I could not ignore him.
Me: I think we’re just meant to be friends, Apple Guy. I’m obviously not your type. You’re feeling guilty or weird about talking to other girls at swing. There’s no pressure. We’ll always have hot cocoa…
Apple Guy: i like hot cocoa. :-( i feel bad because I really like you and you are so good to me. but you are right when you say you are not my usual type.
I didn’t know what to say I was so confused and offended. But at least he was honest.
Me: I would never want someone to be half-heartedly into me. I’m adorable and special. And you’re sweet and I’m glad you’re my swing friend.
Apple Guy: you are so adorable and special. swing would be so boring without you! this is a hard conversations to have over text. i don’t know how you’re feeling right now.
How was I feeling? Really stupid and foolish sounds about right.
Me: I’m fine. Really. This is what I want too. I was just getting mixed messages and didn’t really know how I felt about it either way.
Which is actually true.
Apple Guy: yeah, I was all mixed up about it, too.
Obviously.
Apple Guy: can I still text you about my naked chief dreams?
Me: Well, I’d be disappointed if you didn’t.
Apple Guy: and email you naked pictures of myself?
Me: Save that for the Asian women…
Apple Guy: gasp. but well said and well deserved.
And we left it at that. I felt like my phone was kicking me in the teeth with every new message notification buzz. I felt pathetic and needy and clownishly redundant. It wasn't that I was in love with Apple Guy. Far from it. But Apple Guy represented the possibility of someone decent, charming, and vaguely my age (!) who actually wanted to pursue me. He made me feel like my newfound break up was the start of something endearing and new, rather than the end of all happiness as I knew it.
I suddenly felt like maybe I would never, ever find someone who really saw and adored only me. Me.
I came home and gave into the ultimate comforting temptation. I softly, achingly kissed my ex girlfriend while she slept. At least she would wake up and kiss me back. But then I remembered part of the reason we were no longer officially "together" is because I did not feel "kissed back" by her with any consistency. I held her tightly to me and realized for the billionth time that I have never loved anyone as much as I do her and most of the time it felt like I never, ever would. I rested on the warmth of my unsatisfying lover’s body and suffocated on self-pity until sleep put me out of my misery, if only for a little while.
Sincerely,
Sara
Apple Guy and I broke up last night. Please disregard my last entry. It was wishful thinking. In a word: denial. In fact, forget everything I ever said about Apple Guy. I was wrong.
The truth is he's just not that into me. I had a teacher who lived by that book, He's Just Not That Into You, which they're now making into a movie starring Scarlett Johansson, Jennifer Aniston, Jennifer Connelly, and Drew Barrymore- you know, women that everybody is into. Give me a break!
It all started on Sunday. After my last entry, I was beginning to suspect Apple Guy was, indeed, just not that into me; however, he seemed determined to prove me wrong. I went to a much-romanticized annual Easter bonnet promenading event with Peggy, wearing one of her amazing hat creations (she's an extraordinary milliner) on loan to me for the day. Much to my surprise, Apple Guy came with his parents to see me in my vintage glory. Ladies and gentlemen, he wanted to introduce me to his parents. The Apple Parents took pictures of Apple Guy and I promenading together. It was as if I was at my own engagement party, but I'd never even kissed the groom. It was weird.
I couldn't get the gesture of dragging his parents across town on a holiday to see me wearing a pretty hat out of my mind. On Monday, while I was daydreaming about Apple Guy, I got a very unexpected text message from The Chief.
The Chief: I dreamt about u in ur easter bonnet / in my dream it was all u were wearing / talk about a happy easter
Unbelievable. You can't just text that to a girl out of the blue! At least attempt to warm me up to such a comment first. Test the waters a little! (Although, I doubt there is anything he could have written that would have made me swoon.) This is, of course, all less than a week after I turned down his offer to whisk me away to Costa Rica to share his vacation and, I can only assume, his bed. The Chief still thinks he has a chance of laying me! The more I look at The Chief, the more I see a dirty old man who I've been blind to for entirely too long. He may smell really, really good and treat my like a princess, but nice words don't mean as much when they come with strings attached. I'd had just about enough!
Last night was pretty uneventful in terms of classroom drama. I had some balance issues when it came to the Charleston and felt generally out of practice, but I enjoyed many exhilarating dances despite my two left feet. Apple Guy, The Chief, a new bashful boy I'll call "Grizzly Adam" (yes, he has a beard), and a host of other leaders asked me to dance. I enjoyed myself immensely!
Apple Guy had to leave the practice session early, because the Apple Parents were still in town. Before he left, we attempted to have a conversation off on the side of practice. Much to Apple Guy's disappointment, I kept getting asked to dance. I had just enough time to ask after his parents and tell him about The Chief’s tawdry text. I danced long after he left and began my solo walk to the subway one exhausted step at a time. Just before I got on the subway, I received a text from Apple Guy. The evidence speaks for itself:
Apple Guy: i had a dream that the chief was wearing nothing but your easter bonnet. creeped me out.
Me: Eewww! You’re disgusting. I love it!
Apple Guy: thought you’d like that. seriously you looked so great on easter. nice to see you having fun.
Me: Hey, I didn’t tell you yet. I found a roommate and I have a move out date of June 1. Big step!
Apple Guy (sent before he read my last text): so, were you watching me to see if i was checking out laura tonight?
Me: What!? Who’s Laura?
Apple Guy: slim, attractive girl in our classes.
Me: The pretty Asian girl?
Apple Guy: yes. i felt like you were watching me very closely when we were talking after class.
Me: I honestly have no idea what you are talking about.
Apple Guy: sorry. it’s just me being paranoid. i didn’t mean to ruin our conversation about the chief’s naked easter romp. ignore me.
But, of course, I could not ignore him.
Me: I think we’re just meant to be friends, Apple Guy. I’m obviously not your type. You’re feeling guilty or weird about talking to other girls at swing. There’s no pressure. We’ll always have hot cocoa…
Apple Guy: i like hot cocoa. :-( i feel bad because I really like you and you are so good to me. but you are right when you say you are not my usual type.
I didn’t know what to say I was so confused and offended. But at least he was honest.
Me: I would never want someone to be half-heartedly into me. I’m adorable and special. And you’re sweet and I’m glad you’re my swing friend.
Apple Guy: you are so adorable and special. swing would be so boring without you! this is a hard conversations to have over text. i don’t know how you’re feeling right now.
How was I feeling? Really stupid and foolish sounds about right.
Me: I’m fine. Really. This is what I want too. I was just getting mixed messages and didn’t really know how I felt about it either way.
Which is actually true.
Apple Guy: yeah, I was all mixed up about it, too.
Obviously.
Apple Guy: can I still text you about my naked chief dreams?
Me: Well, I’d be disappointed if you didn’t.
Apple Guy: and email you naked pictures of myself?
Me: Save that for the Asian women…
Apple Guy: gasp. but well said and well deserved.
And we left it at that. I felt like my phone was kicking me in the teeth with every new message notification buzz. I felt pathetic and needy and clownishly redundant. It wasn't that I was in love with Apple Guy. Far from it. But Apple Guy represented the possibility of someone decent, charming, and vaguely my age (!) who actually wanted to pursue me. He made me feel like my newfound break up was the start of something endearing and new, rather than the end of all happiness as I knew it.
I suddenly felt like maybe I would never, ever find someone who really saw and adored only me. Me.
I came home and gave into the ultimate comforting temptation. I softly, achingly kissed my ex girlfriend while she slept. At least she would wake up and kiss me back. But then I remembered part of the reason we were no longer officially "together" is because I did not feel "kissed back" by her with any consistency. I held her tightly to me and realized for the billionth time that I have never loved anyone as much as I do her and most of the time it felt like I never, ever would. I rested on the warmth of my unsatisfying lover’s body and suffocated on self-pity until sleep put me out of my misery, if only for a little while.
Sincerely,
Sara
3.20.2008
Mixed Singles
Dear Swing Enthusiast,
I’m beginning to think I do not understand men at all.
Last week, as you may have noticed, I wasn't able to attend my regularly scheduled swing programming. Peggy reports that when the teacher called my name while taking the attendance, The Chief, Apple Guy, as well as Peggy, herself, all exclaimed I could not attend from three different corners of the room. I'm told it gave the illusion of my excessive popularity. It’s just the right mix of embarrassing and flattering behavior on the part of my main suitors to fatten my ego up a couple of dress sizes. Oh, how the mighty fall…
As you know, Apple Guy and I have been embroiled in a flirtation for some weeks now. After many nights of dancing, languid walks, and romantic winter conversations over hot chocolate at Le Starbucks, I have the distinct impression that Apple Guy is just waiting a few months for me to be officially through with the more-complicated-than-it-has-to-be "roommate" situation to make his move, which, for the record, I wouldn't have any other way... I think.
Apple Guy and I text all the time. From funny, nonsensical blurbs about our day to the occasional string of tawdry bedroom language, if we can think it, chances are we can abbreviate it for the purposes of flirty, effective text messaging teases. But, I’m pleased to announce, last Wednesday marked a radical shift in Apple Guy and my relationship.
He called me!
Yes, that’s right. Oral contact! Of course, I didn’t actually take the call, but rather stared at the phone in shock while, perhaps, squealing a little. Answering the phone didn’t matter. He left the sweetest message just to let me know he missed me at swing and was hoping I was doing well. Call me easy, but I was touched that he thought to call and still am. Apple Guy’s stock was rapidly rising!
Eventually, I called him back when I knew he’d be at work. And he answered anyway! We had a lovely conversation, which ended with him proposing a Saturday non-swing-affiliated hot chocolate date! My head was spinning we were moving so fast.
Fast forward to last Friday night on the eve of our impending cocoa tryst. I’m working one of my many starving artist survival jobs, which happens to be in Apple Guy’s neighborhood, when I get a text from the man himself:
happy friday, sara! i don’t know what to do with myself tonight. what r u doing? any plans?
I am, of course, amused by his thinly veiled proposition to spend a little of my Friday night with my Apple Guy would-be-beau. I decide to play this texting thread out while I figure out if I smell decent enough to paint the town red after working two jobs all day…
Me: I’m working in your ‘hood. What do you want to do tonight?
Apple Guy: just not sit at home alone and depressed.
Me: Oh no. Why depressed? :-/
Apple Guy: just my usual friday night nothing to do sadness. plus I got rejected by a girl the other day.
I’m not sure, but I imagine my head must have cocked to the side and my brow must have simultaneously furrowed after reading that last bit. What an unexpected remark! Perhaps Apple Guy was trying to be ironic. There was only one way to find out…
Me: Who? What did this girl do?
Apple Guy: just this girl at the office I liked for a while. i finally had the courage to ask her out. we did go out once. then yesterday she told me she doesn’t have time to date anyone. broke my heart.
You heard it here first, ladies and gentlemen. BROKE. HIS. HEART. Maybe he was just being honest. Maybe he was trying to let me know he wasn’t going to wait around forever for me to get myself completely disengaged. There is no doubt in my mind we’ve BOTH been into each other on a more-than-friends level up until this text messaging snafu, so why on Earth would he think I wanted to hear this? I mean, just because The Chief asked me to go away with him on an innuendo-drenched all expense paid vacation to Costa Rica at swing last night, doesn’t mean I advertise it to the world, especially to my other romantic entanglements. That’s what secret blogs are for, people! I was beginning to get the distinct impression that Apple Guy had suddenly decided to give me the brush off. But I thought, “Fine, Apple Guy, I’ll play into your twisted texting game.” I was going to kill him with kindness. The texts continued:
Me: Well, I’m sorry to hear that. Your girl is obviously on crazy pills. You’re 100% adorable.
Apple Guy: thanks, sara. u r pretty wonderful yourself.
What?! Yeah, don’t do my any favors, Apple Dick. Oh, and thanks for not calling me to have that hot chocolate on Saturday. What exactly is he playing at? What happened? Where did my sweet nerd man go? My disappointment knew no bounds.
Despite this setback, I had a blast at swing last night. The Chief offered me the world. (And, no, I did not accept.) The Commie kept his distance. Peggy and I started rumors in the corner like schoolgirls. I danced a few with some of the more advanced dancers, who recognized I was ready to follow their lead, broke a serious sweat, and forgot everything but the lindy for most of the evening.
Eventually, Apple Guy did approach me for a chat on the sidelines of the bustling practice session. He immediately apologized for standing me up for our hot chocolate date. He “forgot.” I hate to say it, but he was attentive, sensitive, and good humored during our chat. How confusing! We found ourselves looking out into the sea of dancers, specifically at Little Miss Perfect cutting an impressive rug. Perhaps I shouldn’t have, but I decided to let Apple Guy in on how it was I knew Little Miss Perfect and how sometimes seeing her brought back these negative feelings about our past experience together in the class from hell. She took swing so seriously, attacked it with all of her gusto, and, at the end of the day, was better than me just like she used to be in college. I confessed to him that I felt a little jealous whenever I saw her. Apple Guy, in turn, observed that Little Miss Perfect never looked like she was having any fun, while I radiated joy whenever I danced. He said he couldn’t take his eyes off me.
Yeah, I forgave him.
Yours,
Sara
I’m beginning to think I do not understand men at all.
Last week, as you may have noticed, I wasn't able to attend my regularly scheduled swing programming. Peggy reports that when the teacher called my name while taking the attendance, The Chief, Apple Guy, as well as Peggy, herself, all exclaimed I could not attend from three different corners of the room. I'm told it gave the illusion of my excessive popularity. It’s just the right mix of embarrassing and flattering behavior on the part of my main suitors to fatten my ego up a couple of dress sizes. Oh, how the mighty fall…
As you know, Apple Guy and I have been embroiled in a flirtation for some weeks now. After many nights of dancing, languid walks, and romantic winter conversations over hot chocolate at Le Starbucks, I have the distinct impression that Apple Guy is just waiting a few months for me to be officially through with the more-complicated-than-it-has-to-be "roommate" situation to make his move, which, for the record, I wouldn't have any other way... I think.
Apple Guy and I text all the time. From funny, nonsensical blurbs about our day to the occasional string of tawdry bedroom language, if we can think it, chances are we can abbreviate it for the purposes of flirty, effective text messaging teases. But, I’m pleased to announce, last Wednesday marked a radical shift in Apple Guy and my relationship.
He called me!
Yes, that’s right. Oral contact! Of course, I didn’t actually take the call, but rather stared at the phone in shock while, perhaps, squealing a little. Answering the phone didn’t matter. He left the sweetest message just to let me know he missed me at swing and was hoping I was doing well. Call me easy, but I was touched that he thought to call and still am. Apple Guy’s stock was rapidly rising!
Eventually, I called him back when I knew he’d be at work. And he answered anyway! We had a lovely conversation, which ended with him proposing a Saturday non-swing-affiliated hot chocolate date! My head was spinning we were moving so fast.
Fast forward to last Friday night on the eve of our impending cocoa tryst. I’m working one of my many starving artist survival jobs, which happens to be in Apple Guy’s neighborhood, when I get a text from the man himself:
happy friday, sara! i don’t know what to do with myself tonight. what r u doing? any plans?
I am, of course, amused by his thinly veiled proposition to spend a little of my Friday night with my Apple Guy would-be-beau. I decide to play this texting thread out while I figure out if I smell decent enough to paint the town red after working two jobs all day…
Me: I’m working in your ‘hood. What do you want to do tonight?
Apple Guy: just not sit at home alone and depressed.
Me: Oh no. Why depressed? :-/
Apple Guy: just my usual friday night nothing to do sadness. plus I got rejected by a girl the other day.
I’m not sure, but I imagine my head must have cocked to the side and my brow must have simultaneously furrowed after reading that last bit. What an unexpected remark! Perhaps Apple Guy was trying to be ironic. There was only one way to find out…
Me: Who? What did this girl do?
Apple Guy: just this girl at the office I liked for a while. i finally had the courage to ask her out. we did go out once. then yesterday she told me she doesn’t have time to date anyone. broke my heart.
You heard it here first, ladies and gentlemen. BROKE. HIS. HEART. Maybe he was just being honest. Maybe he was trying to let me know he wasn’t going to wait around forever for me to get myself completely disengaged. There is no doubt in my mind we’ve BOTH been into each other on a more-than-friends level up until this text messaging snafu, so why on Earth would he think I wanted to hear this? I mean, just because The Chief asked me to go away with him on an innuendo-drenched all expense paid vacation to Costa Rica at swing last night, doesn’t mean I advertise it to the world, especially to my other romantic entanglements. That’s what secret blogs are for, people! I was beginning to get the distinct impression that Apple Guy had suddenly decided to give me the brush off. But I thought, “Fine, Apple Guy, I’ll play into your twisted texting game.” I was going to kill him with kindness. The texts continued:
Me: Well, I’m sorry to hear that. Your girl is obviously on crazy pills. You’re 100% adorable.
Apple Guy: thanks, sara. u r pretty wonderful yourself.
What?! Yeah, don’t do my any favors, Apple Dick. Oh, and thanks for not calling me to have that hot chocolate on Saturday. What exactly is he playing at? What happened? Where did my sweet nerd man go? My disappointment knew no bounds.
Despite this setback, I had a blast at swing last night. The Chief offered me the world. (And, no, I did not accept.) The Commie kept his distance. Peggy and I started rumors in the corner like schoolgirls. I danced a few with some of the more advanced dancers, who recognized I was ready to follow their lead, broke a serious sweat, and forgot everything but the lindy for most of the evening.
Eventually, Apple Guy did approach me for a chat on the sidelines of the bustling practice session. He immediately apologized for standing me up for our hot chocolate date. He “forgot.” I hate to say it, but he was attentive, sensitive, and good humored during our chat. How confusing! We found ourselves looking out into the sea of dancers, specifically at Little Miss Perfect cutting an impressive rug. Perhaps I shouldn’t have, but I decided to let Apple Guy in on how it was I knew Little Miss Perfect and how sometimes seeing her brought back these negative feelings about our past experience together in the class from hell. She took swing so seriously, attacked it with all of her gusto, and, at the end of the day, was better than me just like she used to be in college. I confessed to him that I felt a little jealous whenever I saw her. Apple Guy, in turn, observed that Little Miss Perfect never looked like she was having any fun, while I radiated joy whenever I danced. He said he couldn’t take his eyes off me.
Yeah, I forgave him.
Yours,
Sara
3.06.2008
Little Miss Perfect
Dear Swing Enthusiast,
It really is a small world. After a particularly rigorous Charleston class, a fellow swing student ran up to me last night, because she recognized me from a past life. Actually, it was not really a past life, so much as… college. We had taken a particularly memorable art class together, during which I may or may not have threw a temper tantrum and stormed from the class while screaming at the professor, wading in a bucket of my own tears. As it slowly and dreadfully dawned on me who she was and why I must be so 100% memorable to her, I couldn’t help noticing how fantastic she looked. There she was- healthier, sexier, and more glowing than I remembered- bringing back memories of a deeply embarrassing, painful period of my early youth. I had no choice but to dub her “Little Miss Perfect.”
Of course, it turns out she’s officially enrolled in all of my swing classes. We went through the motions of exchanging numbers, offering artistic assistance (aka: showing off anything resembling status we’ve achieved in true high school reunion fashion), and pretending to be thrilled to see each other after all this time.
Of course, The Chief remains convinced I was shamelessly flirting with this girl for his benefit, as all lesbian cock-teases like to do, but, alas, that wasn’t the case…
Yet, in true Little Miss Perfect style, she did genuinely look thrilled to see me. After all, she initially ran up to me in what could definitely be described as a moment of enthusiastic discovery on her part. So, maybe the disingenuous social robotics were, in fact, completely one-sided, making me less and less perfect in the face of Little Miss Perfect’s magnanimous optimism and grace.
I wanted to set fire to her little, perfect, BLONDE head.
When I took a deep breath and acknowledged that the crazy, negative voices of jealousy were trying to take over, it suddenly occurred to me that The Chief might not be too far from the mark after all. Judging from our brief, casual history together and a few time-honored stereotypes completely devoid of fact (aka: GAYDAR), Little Miss Perfect could certainly be gay. Although I hesitate to say for sure if that was the case, just the thought of the now exponentially greater romantic possibilities and mishaps that might await me at swing left me dizzy. Genuine swingers meeting at swing- what a novel thought!
If nothing else, it was clear to me that Little Miss Perfect did not remember me as the immature basket case I thought she might. In fact, she seemed to remember me for what I was busting out of that classroom 5 years ago trying to be: a dignified human being. Maybe I wasn’t the only one who thought that professor was a dastardly prick! Maybe she actually saw how mistreated and powerless I felt back then. Maybe she was happy to have an opportunity to subtly let me know that she thought what I did took guts. Maybe her empathetic compassionate side outweighs her competitive judgmental side. Maybe she really is... perfect.
Or maybe she’s just another lonely, eager artist living in the city, happy to see a familiar face in a sea of swinging strangers. Someone not so different from me.
Time will only tell.
Sincerely,
Sara
It really is a small world. After a particularly rigorous Charleston class, a fellow swing student ran up to me last night, because she recognized me from a past life. Actually, it was not really a past life, so much as… college. We had taken a particularly memorable art class together, during which I may or may not have threw a temper tantrum and stormed from the class while screaming at the professor, wading in a bucket of my own tears. As it slowly and dreadfully dawned on me who she was and why I must be so 100% memorable to her, I couldn’t help noticing how fantastic she looked. There she was- healthier, sexier, and more glowing than I remembered- bringing back memories of a deeply embarrassing, painful period of my early youth. I had no choice but to dub her “Little Miss Perfect.”
Of course, it turns out she’s officially enrolled in all of my swing classes. We went through the motions of exchanging numbers, offering artistic assistance (aka: showing off anything resembling status we’ve achieved in true high school reunion fashion), and pretending to be thrilled to see each other after all this time.
Of course, The Chief remains convinced I was shamelessly flirting with this girl for his benefit, as all lesbian cock-teases like to do, but, alas, that wasn’t the case…
Yet, in true Little Miss Perfect style, she did genuinely look thrilled to see me. After all, she initially ran up to me in what could definitely be described as a moment of enthusiastic discovery on her part. So, maybe the disingenuous social robotics were, in fact, completely one-sided, making me less and less perfect in the face of Little Miss Perfect’s magnanimous optimism and grace.
I wanted to set fire to her little, perfect, BLONDE head.
When I took a deep breath and acknowledged that the crazy, negative voices of jealousy were trying to take over, it suddenly occurred to me that The Chief might not be too far from the mark after all. Judging from our brief, casual history together and a few time-honored stereotypes completely devoid of fact (aka: GAYDAR), Little Miss Perfect could certainly be gay. Although I hesitate to say for sure if that was the case, just the thought of the now exponentially greater romantic possibilities and mishaps that might await me at swing left me dizzy. Genuine swingers meeting at swing- what a novel thought!
If nothing else, it was clear to me that Little Miss Perfect did not remember me as the immature basket case I thought she might. In fact, she seemed to remember me for what I was busting out of that classroom 5 years ago trying to be: a dignified human being. Maybe I wasn’t the only one who thought that professor was a dastardly prick! Maybe she actually saw how mistreated and powerless I felt back then. Maybe she was happy to have an opportunity to subtly let me know that she thought what I did took guts. Maybe her empathetic compassionate side outweighs her competitive judgmental side. Maybe she really is... perfect.
Or maybe she’s just another lonely, eager artist living in the city, happy to see a familiar face in a sea of swinging strangers. Someone not so different from me.
Time will only tell.
Sincerely,
Sara
2.28.2008
The Chief Who Loves Me
Dear Swing Enthusiast,
A number of factors led to the failure of my swing life last night. Apple Inc. took Apple Guy, along with all of his adorable nerd counterparts and their iPhones, on a ski weekend up north. Talk about a perk! Don’t get me wrong. My happiness doesn’t hinge on this one man’s presence. In fact, I was so stressed out and despondent last night, it’s probably better that he wasn’t around to see it. I think it was just the cherry on top of what has been a really difficult week thus far. I didn’t look good. I didn’t feel good. Bottom line: Last night sucked.
As I struggled through my classes, which require a certain amount of peppiness I was less than willing to deliver, nobody but my friend Peggy noticed my lack of enthusiasm. Nobody, that is, except The Chief.
The Chief and I have a complicated relationship. At times, we are almost like father and daughter, while at others we are more like Humbert Humbert and Lolita, but not nearly so graphic or illegal. It all started when I was just a novice, who was too afraid to risk rejection at the practice sessions after class to stick around for them. I would stay for a little while to talk to Peggy, who would occasionally guilt some ridiculously advanced dancer into dragging me around the floor, and then I would leave with my lust for dance unsatisfied. Until The Chief changed all that.
At first, I couldn’t stand him. As a follow to his dance lead, he seemed bossy and patronizing to me, but the more I learned, the more I realized he was genuinely trying to help me get better. He just wanted to dance. He hated it if a teacher rambled on and on about the theory of a particular step. He would say, “If I wanted to take talking lessons, I would have called my mother!” The Chief was a man of action.
We soon became unofficial swing partners. He was witty, charismatic, and there was no funny business because of our 35-year age difference. I know, I know. Boy was I naive! He started offering me a ride home after practice, and eventually, after checking Peggy’s opinion, I accepted. He's a retired Police Chief, after all. If you can’t trust a 60-year-old man with a badge, who the hell can you trust?
I can remember the exact moment I realized I was wrong about The Chief’s intentions. I was in the passenger seat of his car gabbing away delightedly. I was really proud of our friendship. He was my sweet, ol’ man mentor. The Chief made me feel special and I, in turn, made him feel wise. For a girl who grew up without a father, a relationship like ours was priceless. In appreciation of all his rides home, cutting my commute by more than half, I offered him complimentary theater tickets I have access to. He said he would only take me up on my offer if he could take me out for dinner directly following the play. Thing is, I hadn't planned on going with him! Was he suggesting we go on a date!?
After my initial feeling that he was, perhaps, courting me, I decided I must be reading too much into his proposal. Can't a friend treat another friend to a meal? He knows I'm a starving artist. It was probably just a sweet, friendly, decidedly platonic gesture, right?
Wrong! The next week at swing he asked for my phone number in a way that could leave little doubt he had his romantic sights on moi, which is when I broke the news to him. I was in a relationship. You may be asking yourself why I didn't mention my significant other to him before. Well, that's easy: my significant other was a really amazing girl. Yes, I'm gay. I have never been secretive about it. However, there never seemed to be a good time to tell the retired police chief, who might be- dare I say- conservative, about my bi-sexuality. There was no reason to risk our friendship over something that really didn't concern him. Now, I'm thinking maybe I should have at least dropped a hint!
The week after he made his move, swing was a little tense. The Chief had been pretty shocked when I said I was seeing someone, but when I told him I was with a woman, he couldn't help but grin. News flash: Guys love the thought of girl on girl action. The Chief was just tickled I was with a girl. I, on the other hand, found that night of swing painfully awkward. I didn't know how to act. Do I joke around with him? Do I push him away? Do I let him drive me home!?
As if in a dream, I found myself leaving the practice session early and sitting down to eat with The Chief at a burger joint across the street. I felt like I was floating above my body, watching myself follow The Chief's lead. The logic behind our meal was that friends were allowed to eat together. Before long, we established that friends were "allowed" to talk on the phone, text, email, eat, dance and even spend major holidays together.
Yes, you read that right; I spent New Year's Eve with The Chief.
In order to master the art of swing, you need to relinquish control to your dance partner. You literally need to follow his lead. Maybe I took this theory too far, but, then again, maybe not. The Chief and I are friends. He looks really good for his age, but we all have our limits, ladies. He never lets me forget he's attracted to me, but I never let him forget, even now that I'm single, that I have nothing to offer him but friendship. Maybe we're kidding ourselves, or maybe we're being really adult. Just because we don't have a romantic future, doesn't mean there isn't value to being in each other's lives.
On New Year's Eve, as the clock struck midnight 2008 for the very first time, one thing is certain. He wanted to kiss me. If I did kiss him, it would be the most nervous, stiff, guilt-ridden kiss of my life. If I didn't, I would probably always wonder about it.
Things have cooled down significantly between The Chief and I since New Year's Eve. For starters, he doesn't drive me home anymore. As we all know, I have a long-standing walking date with Apple Guy after class. Also, The Chief is finally taking me up on my theater tickets, but he's taking both tickets for himself and actually bringing a date. Yet, as swing class was wiping the floor with me last night, it was nice to know I could count on my Chief to give me a pick me up, make me feel appreciated, offer me a ride, and see me safely to the door.
So, did I kiss The Chief on New Year's Eve?
I'll never tell. But you have to ask yourself... How could I not?
Love,
Sara
A number of factors led to the failure of my swing life last night. Apple Inc. took Apple Guy, along with all of his adorable nerd counterparts and their iPhones, on a ski weekend up north. Talk about a perk! Don’t get me wrong. My happiness doesn’t hinge on this one man’s presence. In fact, I was so stressed out and despondent last night, it’s probably better that he wasn’t around to see it. I think it was just the cherry on top of what has been a really difficult week thus far. I didn’t look good. I didn’t feel good. Bottom line: Last night sucked.
As I struggled through my classes, which require a certain amount of peppiness I was less than willing to deliver, nobody but my friend Peggy noticed my lack of enthusiasm. Nobody, that is, except The Chief.
The Chief and I have a complicated relationship. At times, we are almost like father and daughter, while at others we are more like Humbert Humbert and Lolita, but not nearly so graphic or illegal. It all started when I was just a novice, who was too afraid to risk rejection at the practice sessions after class to stick around for them. I would stay for a little while to talk to Peggy, who would occasionally guilt some ridiculously advanced dancer into dragging me around the floor, and then I would leave with my lust for dance unsatisfied. Until The Chief changed all that.
At first, I couldn’t stand him. As a follow to his dance lead, he seemed bossy and patronizing to me, but the more I learned, the more I realized he was genuinely trying to help me get better. He just wanted to dance. He hated it if a teacher rambled on and on about the theory of a particular step. He would say, “If I wanted to take talking lessons, I would have called my mother!” The Chief was a man of action.
We soon became unofficial swing partners. He was witty, charismatic, and there was no funny business because of our 35-year age difference. I know, I know. Boy was I naive! He started offering me a ride home after practice, and eventually, after checking Peggy’s opinion, I accepted. He's a retired Police Chief, after all. If you can’t trust a 60-year-old man with a badge, who the hell can you trust?
I can remember the exact moment I realized I was wrong about The Chief’s intentions. I was in the passenger seat of his car gabbing away delightedly. I was really proud of our friendship. He was my sweet, ol’ man mentor. The Chief made me feel special and I, in turn, made him feel wise. For a girl who grew up without a father, a relationship like ours was priceless. In appreciation of all his rides home, cutting my commute by more than half, I offered him complimentary theater tickets I have access to. He said he would only take me up on my offer if he could take me out for dinner directly following the play. Thing is, I hadn't planned on going with him! Was he suggesting we go on a date!?
After my initial feeling that he was, perhaps, courting me, I decided I must be reading too much into his proposal. Can't a friend treat another friend to a meal? He knows I'm a starving artist. It was probably just a sweet, friendly, decidedly platonic gesture, right?
Wrong! The next week at swing he asked for my phone number in a way that could leave little doubt he had his romantic sights on moi, which is when I broke the news to him. I was in a relationship. You may be asking yourself why I didn't mention my significant other to him before. Well, that's easy: my significant other was a really amazing girl. Yes, I'm gay. I have never been secretive about it. However, there never seemed to be a good time to tell the retired police chief, who might be- dare I say- conservative, about my bi-sexuality. There was no reason to risk our friendship over something that really didn't concern him. Now, I'm thinking maybe I should have at least dropped a hint!
The week after he made his move, swing was a little tense. The Chief had been pretty shocked when I said I was seeing someone, but when I told him I was with a woman, he couldn't help but grin. News flash: Guys love the thought of girl on girl action. The Chief was just tickled I was with a girl. I, on the other hand, found that night of swing painfully awkward. I didn't know how to act. Do I joke around with him? Do I push him away? Do I let him drive me home!?
As if in a dream, I found myself leaving the practice session early and sitting down to eat with The Chief at a burger joint across the street. I felt like I was floating above my body, watching myself follow The Chief's lead. The logic behind our meal was that friends were allowed to eat together. Before long, we established that friends were "allowed" to talk on the phone, text, email, eat, dance and even spend major holidays together.
Yes, you read that right; I spent New Year's Eve with The Chief.
In order to master the art of swing, you need to relinquish control to your dance partner. You literally need to follow his lead. Maybe I took this theory too far, but, then again, maybe not. The Chief and I are friends. He looks really good for his age, but we all have our limits, ladies. He never lets me forget he's attracted to me, but I never let him forget, even now that I'm single, that I have nothing to offer him but friendship. Maybe we're kidding ourselves, or maybe we're being really adult. Just because we don't have a romantic future, doesn't mean there isn't value to being in each other's lives.
On New Year's Eve, as the clock struck midnight 2008 for the very first time, one thing is certain. He wanted to kiss me. If I did kiss him, it would be the most nervous, stiff, guilt-ridden kiss of my life. If I didn't, I would probably always wonder about it.
Things have cooled down significantly between The Chief and I since New Year's Eve. For starters, he doesn't drive me home anymore. As we all know, I have a long-standing walking date with Apple Guy after class. Also, The Chief is finally taking me up on my theater tickets, but he's taking both tickets for himself and actually bringing a date. Yet, as swing class was wiping the floor with me last night, it was nice to know I could count on my Chief to give me a pick me up, make me feel appreciated, offer me a ride, and see me safely to the door.
So, did I kiss The Chief on New Year's Eve?
I'll never tell. But you have to ask yourself... How could I not?
Love,
Sara
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