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
8.22.2008
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
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