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
2.28.2008
2.21.2008
Apple Guy and the Red Leather Sofa
Dear Swing Enthusiast,
Swing almost killed me last night. Through the course of 2 hour-long classes and 1 very surreal practice session, it became clear I was coming down with a terrible head cold. Despite this sneezing and sniffling delirium, I still managed to get myself into some trouble with the men at the dance studio.
Truth be told, it all started with a couch.
I am an artist by trade. A couple weeks ago, I participated in a weekend intensive seminar called, "Self-Exploration Discovery Weekend." (As an artist, I am required to subject myself to as many dramatic cry-fest weekends as possible. Known fact.) In this seminar, we were asked to think of an aspect of our personality that we were afraid to tap into. Maybe it's the swinger in me, but I chose 100% confident, aggressive, passionate sensuality. We were then taken step-by-step through an imaginative exercise where we visualized ourselves walking though a field, up a hill, down the hill, across a valley, toward a mountain, into a cave, through a corridor, up to a door and into a pitch-black room. We were then told that, when we turned on the lights in the room, there would be a humongous white screen; an image of the personality aspect we were afraid to explore (the lusty, sexy, carnal one I previously mentioned) was supposed to appear on the screen. I took a deep breath. As I exhaled, I slowly brought up the lights in my make-believe room and on the screen before me was a truly striking vision: A big, antique, tufted, red, leather couch. It was raining all around the couch and I knew instantly that it was a sofa to make hot, passionate, soaking-wet love on...
Believe it or not, this brings me back to swing and to a dance partner I like to call "Apple Guy." Apple Guy works for Apple Computers as some sort of programming engineer grand-wizard. He's a seemingly kind, bashful, sweetly dorky 30-year-old man. He's been in my classes for months, but I didn't really notice him until recently. I was too busy figuring out how I felt about/ batting off the advances of the retired police chief (henceforth know as "The Chief") to see the wallflower novice with the nice eyes, but that's another story...
One day, Apple Guy and I suddenly hit it off. In class, we dance with everyone, switching partners every minute or so, and Apple Guy and I started joking around under our breath when we were partnered and ultimately didn't want to switch to the next partner all that enthusiastically (or at least that's how I felt). It wasn't long before we were a regular practice session item and he was walking me to the subway at the end of the night. That subway walk turned into a much longer walk, when I decided to change the trains I was taking home with the highly transparent intention of spending more time with Apple Guy, who actually lives within walking distance of our swanky downtown dance studio. This longer walk turned into regular intimate chats over hot chocolate before I got on the train. It was at one of these hot chocolate tête-à-têtes that I discovered Apple Guy has what might be considered a major malfunction!
Apple Guy is no stranger to the online dating world, but, then again, many people I know and love aren't either. He works for Apple. He lives in the city. Of course he meets girls online. When I asked him what website he used (with every intention of posing as an impostor on the site only to catch a glimpse of his profile), I was shocked that his answer was Asian Friend Finder.
You see, Apple Guy isn't Asian. He's, you guessed it, white. And guess what? So am I. I think Asian women are gorgeous, brilliant and totally deserving of a nice man like Apple Guy, but does the fact that Apple Guy almost exclusively seeks out and dates Asian women make him such a nice guy after all?
One of my best friends is Korean-American. When she went to college, she started getting hit on by a handful of skeevy, older, white men who were looking for a submissive, Asian stereotype in a girl. A good-girl servant. A slave. How could I help but wonder whether or not this was also Apple Guy's affliction? Apple Guy even admitted to me that out of about 15 women he'd seen over the past decade or so, all but 2 had been Asian! Those numbers haunt me to this day.
The next week, I resolved to put Apple Guy somewhat out of my mind. There would be no hot chocolate this night. I needed to distance myself from the man with the Asian fetish. But when actually faced with him on Wednesday night, he seemed so boyish, genuine, unassuming, charming and doting that I couldn't stop smiling from ear to ear whenever he looked at me. As we took the long walk to the subway together, we revisited the subject of his Asian preference. He had thought about the figures he gave me regarding his romantic history statistics, and couldn't deny it must seem a little suspect. I mean, 13/15 isn't exactly a representative percentage of the Asian population in this city at least. He suddenly appeared totally vulnerable as he said, "Sara, it's not that these are the only women I've ever looked for; they just happen to be the only women that I've ever had any luck with."
It turns out Apple Guy studied, worked and lived in Japan for a number of years before working for Apple. He speaks fluent Japanese. He's dated mostly Japanese girls both in Japan and here. I suddenly got it. If I were a Japanese woman, I think I would find a shy, charming American guy who spoke my language very attractive. After all, if Apple Guy were actually a skeevy man with a fetish, he probably wouldn't have much luck with Asian women at all. I think most women can smell that kind of bullshit coming. At least, I hope so. After mulling all this over (and, of course, hacking into his Asian Friend Finder profile as promised), I realized I had been an idiot. He didn't owe me an explanation. His history of Asian girlfriends made me feel insecure, because I was incapable of fitting the exotic bill. His profile on the dating site came off just as honest and sweet as the guy I had hit it off with in person. Last week, Apple Guy asked for my phone number after our hot chocolate date, and I gladly gave it to him. He texted me on Valentine's Day and we've been texting ever since (I'm sorry, but it's 2008. Vocal phone communication is dead.) We're even officially friends on Facebook! Apple Guy is pretty adorable after all.
Last night came with its fair share of Apple Guy intrigue. The Chief was the first of my many dance partners at the practice session. Apple Guy eventually made his move, but in the heat of our initial nervous banter, he forgot to actually ask me to dance. So while we were talking, a happy little man I call "Jiminy Cricket" scooped me up to dance before we had barely gotten to say hello. Apple Guy eventually got the message that he had to walk up to me, simply ask me to dance and save the talking for hot cocoa. At the end of every song, he would ask if I wanted to dance with someone else or would it be ok to dance another with him. With most guys, you have take a trip to the restroom to get them off your back. It wasn't long before Apple Guy lost me to a new man in my life, "The Commie."
After dancing a few, The Commie and I sat down for a quick rest. That rest turned out to be anything but quick. The Commie is an incredibly intense guy circa 40-something. He makes very deliberate, hypnotic eye contact and speaks slowly and enthusiastically about almost everything, so much so that you can't help mirroring his focus and never-ending sense of discovery. In the course of the, at least, 45 minutes I chatted with The Commie, only once sending Apple Guy a furtive, pleading glance, I learned that the man I now call Commie is a physical therapist, who sold his co-op apartment in the heart of the city to live in a commune in the least sexy suburb imaginable. That's right, a commune. What!? Now you know why I call him The Commie. What’s more, my friend Peggy, who incited me to start taking swing in the first place, has it on good authority that his physical therapy sessions are known for their "happy endings," if you catch my drift. In the 45 minutes of my smiling, nodding, absorbing and occasionally speaking to The Commie, not one man asked me to dance. Even my devoted Chief left me with barely a farewell. According to Peggy, I looked quite absorbed in my conversation with The Commie. He clearly had me entranced.
Eventually, I simply excused myself to the bathroom. It's my only defense.
I bumped into Apple Guy on my way to ladies room and we made a pact to make our exit after one more dance. I was getting sicker by the minute and The Commie's conversation had my head spinning a little. I needed to get out of there! As we began bundling up, I checked in with Apple Guy about how his plans to paint his bedroom a very pale shade of blue had gone during the previous week. Pale blue is not my favorite color, so I asked what the rest of the color scheme of his apartment was like. With mostly white walls, black furniture and stainless steel everything else, he wasn't remotely redeeming himself. Then suddenly he perked up like he knew I would love what he was about to say. And proud as a peacock he declared, "I do have a really great red leather couch. No lie." If ever there was a sign I was walking home with the right man, this was it.
It just so happens that last night coincided with a lunar eclipse. On our walk to hot chocolate heaven, Apple Guy and I stopped and watched the shadowy moon in a moment of silence not often found in this urban landscape. Then I realized he wasn't looking at the moon; he was looking at me looking at the moon. I think I must have visibly blushed. It was an ideal kissing moment...
...if it weren't for the 5,000 lbs of mucous filling my skull to capacity, attempting to escape out my nose one useless sniffle at a time. I was one sneeze away from creaming him in that moment. Thankfully, like the kiss, it didn't happen.
Yours,
Sara
Swing almost killed me last night. Through the course of 2 hour-long classes and 1 very surreal practice session, it became clear I was coming down with a terrible head cold. Despite this sneezing and sniffling delirium, I still managed to get myself into some trouble with the men at the dance studio.
Truth be told, it all started with a couch.
I am an artist by trade. A couple weeks ago, I participated in a weekend intensive seminar called, "Self-Exploration Discovery Weekend." (As an artist, I am required to subject myself to as many dramatic cry-fest weekends as possible. Known fact.) In this seminar, we were asked to think of an aspect of our personality that we were afraid to tap into. Maybe it's the swinger in me, but I chose 100% confident, aggressive, passionate sensuality. We were then taken step-by-step through an imaginative exercise where we visualized ourselves walking though a field, up a hill, down the hill, across a valley, toward a mountain, into a cave, through a corridor, up to a door and into a pitch-black room. We were then told that, when we turned on the lights in the room, there would be a humongous white screen; an image of the personality aspect we were afraid to explore (the lusty, sexy, carnal one I previously mentioned) was supposed to appear on the screen. I took a deep breath. As I exhaled, I slowly brought up the lights in my make-believe room and on the screen before me was a truly striking vision: A big, antique, tufted, red, leather couch. It was raining all around the couch and I knew instantly that it was a sofa to make hot, passionate, soaking-wet love on...
Believe it or not, this brings me back to swing and to a dance partner I like to call "Apple Guy." Apple Guy works for Apple Computers as some sort of programming engineer grand-wizard. He's a seemingly kind, bashful, sweetly dorky 30-year-old man. He's been in my classes for months, but I didn't really notice him until recently. I was too busy figuring out how I felt about/ batting off the advances of the retired police chief (henceforth know as "The Chief") to see the wallflower novice with the nice eyes, but that's another story...
One day, Apple Guy and I suddenly hit it off. In class, we dance with everyone, switching partners every minute or so, and Apple Guy and I started joking around under our breath when we were partnered and ultimately didn't want to switch to the next partner all that enthusiastically (or at least that's how I felt). It wasn't long before we were a regular practice session item and he was walking me to the subway at the end of the night. That subway walk turned into a much longer walk, when I decided to change the trains I was taking home with the highly transparent intention of spending more time with Apple Guy, who actually lives within walking distance of our swanky downtown dance studio. This longer walk turned into regular intimate chats over hot chocolate before I got on the train. It was at one of these hot chocolate tête-à-têtes that I discovered Apple Guy has what might be considered a major malfunction!
Apple Guy is no stranger to the online dating world, but, then again, many people I know and love aren't either. He works for Apple. He lives in the city. Of course he meets girls online. When I asked him what website he used (with every intention of posing as an impostor on the site only to catch a glimpse of his profile), I was shocked that his answer was Asian Friend Finder.
You see, Apple Guy isn't Asian. He's, you guessed it, white. And guess what? So am I. I think Asian women are gorgeous, brilliant and totally deserving of a nice man like Apple Guy, but does the fact that Apple Guy almost exclusively seeks out and dates Asian women make him such a nice guy after all?
One of my best friends is Korean-American. When she went to college, she started getting hit on by a handful of skeevy, older, white men who were looking for a submissive, Asian stereotype in a girl. A good-girl servant. A slave. How could I help but wonder whether or not this was also Apple Guy's affliction? Apple Guy even admitted to me that out of about 15 women he'd seen over the past decade or so, all but 2 had been Asian! Those numbers haunt me to this day.
The next week, I resolved to put Apple Guy somewhat out of my mind. There would be no hot chocolate this night. I needed to distance myself from the man with the Asian fetish. But when actually faced with him on Wednesday night, he seemed so boyish, genuine, unassuming, charming and doting that I couldn't stop smiling from ear to ear whenever he looked at me. As we took the long walk to the subway together, we revisited the subject of his Asian preference. He had thought about the figures he gave me regarding his romantic history statistics, and couldn't deny it must seem a little suspect. I mean, 13/15 isn't exactly a representative percentage of the Asian population in this city at least. He suddenly appeared totally vulnerable as he said, "Sara, it's not that these are the only women I've ever looked for; they just happen to be the only women that I've ever had any luck with."
It turns out Apple Guy studied, worked and lived in Japan for a number of years before working for Apple. He speaks fluent Japanese. He's dated mostly Japanese girls both in Japan and here. I suddenly got it. If I were a Japanese woman, I think I would find a shy, charming American guy who spoke my language very attractive. After all, if Apple Guy were actually a skeevy man with a fetish, he probably wouldn't have much luck with Asian women at all. I think most women can smell that kind of bullshit coming. At least, I hope so. After mulling all this over (and, of course, hacking into his Asian Friend Finder profile as promised), I realized I had been an idiot. He didn't owe me an explanation. His history of Asian girlfriends made me feel insecure, because I was incapable of fitting the exotic bill. His profile on the dating site came off just as honest and sweet as the guy I had hit it off with in person. Last week, Apple Guy asked for my phone number after our hot chocolate date, and I gladly gave it to him. He texted me on Valentine's Day and we've been texting ever since (I'm sorry, but it's 2008. Vocal phone communication is dead.) We're even officially friends on Facebook! Apple Guy is pretty adorable after all.
Last night came with its fair share of Apple Guy intrigue. The Chief was the first of my many dance partners at the practice session. Apple Guy eventually made his move, but in the heat of our initial nervous banter, he forgot to actually ask me to dance. So while we were talking, a happy little man I call "Jiminy Cricket" scooped me up to dance before we had barely gotten to say hello. Apple Guy eventually got the message that he had to walk up to me, simply ask me to dance and save the talking for hot cocoa. At the end of every song, he would ask if I wanted to dance with someone else or would it be ok to dance another with him. With most guys, you have take a trip to the restroom to get them off your back. It wasn't long before Apple Guy lost me to a new man in my life, "The Commie."
After dancing a few, The Commie and I sat down for a quick rest. That rest turned out to be anything but quick. The Commie is an incredibly intense guy circa 40-something. He makes very deliberate, hypnotic eye contact and speaks slowly and enthusiastically about almost everything, so much so that you can't help mirroring his focus and never-ending sense of discovery. In the course of the, at least, 45 minutes I chatted with The Commie, only once sending Apple Guy a furtive, pleading glance, I learned that the man I now call Commie is a physical therapist, who sold his co-op apartment in the heart of the city to live in a commune in the least sexy suburb imaginable. That's right, a commune. What!? Now you know why I call him The Commie. What’s more, my friend Peggy, who incited me to start taking swing in the first place, has it on good authority that his physical therapy sessions are known for their "happy endings," if you catch my drift. In the 45 minutes of my smiling, nodding, absorbing and occasionally speaking to The Commie, not one man asked me to dance. Even my devoted Chief left me with barely a farewell. According to Peggy, I looked quite absorbed in my conversation with The Commie. He clearly had me entranced.
Eventually, I simply excused myself to the bathroom. It's my only defense.
I bumped into Apple Guy on my way to ladies room and we made a pact to make our exit after one more dance. I was getting sicker by the minute and The Commie's conversation had my head spinning a little. I needed to get out of there! As we began bundling up, I checked in with Apple Guy about how his plans to paint his bedroom a very pale shade of blue had gone during the previous week. Pale blue is not my favorite color, so I asked what the rest of the color scheme of his apartment was like. With mostly white walls, black furniture and stainless steel everything else, he wasn't remotely redeeming himself. Then suddenly he perked up like he knew I would love what he was about to say. And proud as a peacock he declared, "I do have a really great red leather couch. No lie." If ever there was a sign I was walking home with the right man, this was it.
It just so happens that last night coincided with a lunar eclipse. On our walk to hot chocolate heaven, Apple Guy and I stopped and watched the shadowy moon in a moment of silence not often found in this urban landscape. Then I realized he wasn't looking at the moon; he was looking at me looking at the moon. I think I must have visibly blushed. It was an ideal kissing moment...
...if it weren't for the 5,000 lbs of mucous filling my skull to capacity, attempting to escape out my nose one useless sniffle at a time. I was one sneeze away from creaming him in that moment. Thankfully, like the kiss, it didn't happen.
Yours,
Sara
2.18.2008
Off to a Swingin' Start...
Dear Swing Enthusiast,
My name is Sara and I am a 25 year old swing-a-holic. I started taking swing lessons last year at a friend's behest. I took to it immediately. Don't get me wrong; I am still very green, but I'm having a blast and advancing quickly. The music, the fashions, and the promise of aerial moves all keep me practicing as much as I can every week, but it's the social drama that keeps me truly enamored.
I'm single... sort of. Yes, I'm officially single, but I'm still living with my ex until the lease is up. This is the city. Real estate is, mildly put, a total bitch. While I haven't been above the friends-with-benefits habitual traps that come with cohabiting with my ex, I am committed to making this summer the first time Sara has lived completely alone in... well, ever. This means saving money for a closet on the city outskirts to hang my hat before and after a long commute to and from the boom of the metropolis. It's a daunting goal to say the least.
This brings me back to swing. You see, the clock is ticking on my lease and my relationship with my roommate/ lover/ best-friend/ loathed-ex. Swing only emphasizes this time crunch. I want to begin by stating for the record that I did not begin swing dancing to find my dream man or even a nice guy to date for a little while. I came to dance. I came to dress up like it was 1940. I came to challenge myself. I came because I was scared. I had no idea what I was getting myself in to.
The studio I swing at has a long history of romantic entanglements. Within weeks of taking up this athletic, peppy dance form, I was dancing regularly with a handful of men, ages 25 and up... way up. I was really enjoying the refreshing experience of getting to know all these different men platonically through learning how to dance together. But it wasn't until just before Christmas, after phone numbers, emails, and countless text messages were exchanged with my new swing "buddies," that I realized almost all of my regular swing practice partners were courting me! Even the 60 year old retired police chief who drove me home after the late night practice sessions made a move! Indeed, I was shocked to find out that it seemed everyone was swinging in the hopes of getting a date.
A few exciting newcomers and near dance-death experiences later, I am starting a swing diary. These are the stories of the men and women swinging in the city. Though names have been changed to protect the not-so-innocent, the crux of the stories are all the very truth. In this period of transition in my young-adult life, only one thing is clear:
There's a very thin line between love and dance.
Sincerely,
Sara
My name is Sara and I am a 25 year old swing-a-holic. I started taking swing lessons last year at a friend's behest. I took to it immediately. Don't get me wrong; I am still very green, but I'm having a blast and advancing quickly. The music, the fashions, and the promise of aerial moves all keep me practicing as much as I can every week, but it's the social drama that keeps me truly enamored.
I'm single... sort of. Yes, I'm officially single, but I'm still living with my ex until the lease is up. This is the city. Real estate is, mildly put, a total bitch. While I haven't been above the friends-with-benefits habitual traps that come with cohabiting with my ex, I am committed to making this summer the first time Sara has lived completely alone in... well, ever. This means saving money for a closet on the city outskirts to hang my hat before and after a long commute to and from the boom of the metropolis. It's a daunting goal to say the least.
This brings me back to swing. You see, the clock is ticking on my lease and my relationship with my roommate/ lover/ best-friend/ loathed-ex. Swing only emphasizes this time crunch. I want to begin by stating for the record that I did not begin swing dancing to find my dream man or even a nice guy to date for a little while. I came to dance. I came to dress up like it was 1940. I came to challenge myself. I came because I was scared. I had no idea what I was getting myself in to.
The studio I swing at has a long history of romantic entanglements. Within weeks of taking up this athletic, peppy dance form, I was dancing regularly with a handful of men, ages 25 and up... way up. I was really enjoying the refreshing experience of getting to know all these different men platonically through learning how to dance together. But it wasn't until just before Christmas, after phone numbers, emails, and countless text messages were exchanged with my new swing "buddies," that I realized almost all of my regular swing practice partners were courting me! Even the 60 year old retired police chief who drove me home after the late night practice sessions made a move! Indeed, I was shocked to find out that it seemed everyone was swinging in the hopes of getting a date.
A few exciting newcomers and near dance-death experiences later, I am starting a swing diary. These are the stories of the men and women swinging in the city. Though names have been changed to protect the not-so-innocent, the crux of the stories are all the very truth. In this period of transition in my young-adult life, only one thing is clear:
There's a very thin line between love and dance.
Sincerely,
Sara
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