Breaking Up is Hard to Do

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