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
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
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