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
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