Dear Swing Enthusiast,
I don't really have much to report about last night. I had fun! It looks like Grisly Adam has a girlfriend, Apple Guy continues to send mixed signals despite our "break-up," and I may never master the devilishly simple eight-count swing out. But none of that got to me! Well, at least not for too long. Because the fact that I was actually successfully tossed through the air multiple times by my practice partners- in conjunction with one other critical piece of intel- really made my night...
The Chief never showed up.
I don't know how, why, or where the heck he was, but, beyond not wishing any harm befell him, I was thrilled he took the night off. New people approached me to dance! I felt like a kid out past a dirty-ol'-man-imposed curfew. I felt young and vibrant and free. And here's a news flash: I AM young and vibrant and free!
I guess we can all use a reminder every once and a while.
Sincerely,
Sara
P.S. Omigod. My first PS! Just thought I'd let all you diaries enthusiasts know that I'll be hitting the studio twice a week beginning next week. That means two entries a week. Double the blogging; double the neurtotic, sassy fun!
4.24.2008
4.10.2008
Nobody Puts Peggy In the Corner
Dear Swing Enthusiast,
Last night was not without its triumphs. I wore one of those trendy shorts onesies with footless tights and heels. HOT! Unfortunately, the ensemble’s magic worked best on The Chief, whose response to the outfit was to call me a “tramp!” True story.
Cowboy Girl and Gal Pal were in attendance, along with Apple Guy, who danced quite a few with me. Mr. Apple and I did some of the best dancing of our swing lives last night. But my best turn was with the mysterious Grisly Adam. Let’s face it. I have a bit of a crush on the shy but steady bearded boy who’s just a little bit behind my swing level, giving me an edge of confidence that puts ideas in my head. Grisly only comes out of hiding occasionally, looking like it took all of his nerve to come and ask me to dance. This could be because (a) he covertly dances with his girlfriend most of the night and only looks for some other partnerless girl when she goes to the bathroom, or (b) because he thinks I’m super cute! I have nothing more to say on the matter other than he peaked my interest last night, so today I’m hoping for option b.
I actually don’t want to talk about myself right now though. Shocking, I know. I do want to talk about one of my favorite people in the whole swing universe, Peggy. I met Peggy a little over a year ago when I started working for her, and it was love at first sight. Peggy is a fashion icon to the girls in our workplace. Every day she breezes in looking like a vintage fashion plate from the 20s, 30s, 40s, or 50s, often wearing a hat of her own crafting. Peggy is not only fabulously beautiful and fashionable, but she is also truly unassuming about her glamour. She’s bighearted, modest, mischievous, witty, sensitive, sincere, and a terrific dancer to boot! Simply put: She is dazzling inside and out.
So why would someone this amazing have any trouble getting someone to ask her to dance?
That’s the question Apple Guy and I were faced with last night when we found ourselves once again walking to the subway together. (Please try to keep in mind that he is admittedly only attracted to Asian women before your minds go running to a seedy romantic gutter in which they do not belong!) On our familiar walk, Apple Guy mentioned that last week (when I was scarcely speaking to him) he asked Peggy to dance with him for the very first time. Originally, he asked her if she was just taking a rest on the sidelines on purpose, as most advanced follows, such as herself, are on the dance floor all night long. However, much to his surprise, she responded that she, in fact, rarely got asked to dance.
Enter the rakish, handsome, exceedingly popular swing teacher, “Woody Bellagamba.” AKA: Peggy’s husband. I know, I know, Woody and Peggy’s combined names may seem too quaint a bit of assonance to bear for all the days of this blog. Trust me; there was just no getting around it.
Now, Woody Bellagamba is 100% extraordinary in his own right. He’s a marvelous professional swing dancer with his own flair for vintage fashion. In sexy opposition to each other, at first glance, Woody is a rougher, roguish, definitively male answer to Peggy’s lady-like demeanor. They’re like a grown-up version Sandy and Danny from Grease, minus the singing and camp. Whereas Peggy excels in all things ballroom, Woody prefers the down and dirty, fast-paced world of lindy hop. They’re the Green Acres couple of the dance studio. Hold on a minute while I think of another old school film or tv reference to better explain how I see their relationship. He’s Mork; she’s Mindy. He’s the Ghost; she’s Mrs. Muir. He’s Oscar; she’s Felix. He’s Scarecrow; she’s Mrs. King. He’s Rock; she’s Doris. He’s Cagney; she’s Lacey. If Mary Tyler Moore could date the Fonze, you’d get Peggy and Woody. Get it? It works. It’s hot!
…to the untrained eye!
Actually, they’re smoldering in any light. But when you see Woody cutting a rug all night with every lovely swing enthusiast tart on the floor, while Peggy waits in hope of a partner on the side, you start to wonder. Now don’t get me wrong; they do dance together. Because it draws on their combined dance fortes, they dance a particularly mean Peabody. But whether Woody is aware of it or not, he’s like a rooster in a hen house when it comes to our little dance studio. All the women want him. Hell, last time I checked, I wanted him! (Don’t worry, Peggy. It’s a purely figurative lust.) So, while Woody happily swings with all of his students, Peggy, who is also clearly adored by her own male following, has a huge, invisible, rubber stamp on her hat that says:
Property of Mr. Woody Bellagamba. Hands off!
It’s sad, but true. You can look at her perfect porcelain features, but there’s a general sense that you can’t touch ‘em. Apple Guy couldn’t help but feel as though he was trespassing when he first approached her last week. And such is Peggy’s plight. She follows her husband to many a dance function within their charming swing community, and often watches him dance with the rest of the ladies in attendance from afar. But even though Apple Guy and I felt distressed when we realized that Peggy was not getting all the dance happiness she deserves, it didn’t diminish one ounce of the delight we each felt in being or, in his case, becoming her friend. I told Apple Guy about how Peggy started taking advanced ballroom classes with a competitor of our regular dance studio- someplace where there wasn’t so much social red tape to wade through. We both thought- Good for her!. Even Apple Guy, who barely knows her, can see that Peggy is a particularly amazing woman. Her qualities are, in fact, sometimes intimidating. And to all those cowards who let some preposterous idea about Woody (who, I must admit, I adore) or fear of a beautiful woman stop you from asking such a fine lady to dance, I say you made the right decision. Seriously, well done.
She’s way too good for you.
Love,
Sara
Last night was not without its triumphs. I wore one of those trendy shorts onesies with footless tights and heels. HOT! Unfortunately, the ensemble’s magic worked best on The Chief, whose response to the outfit was to call me a “tramp!” True story.
Cowboy Girl and Gal Pal were in attendance, along with Apple Guy, who danced quite a few with me. Mr. Apple and I did some of the best dancing of our swing lives last night. But my best turn was with the mysterious Grisly Adam. Let’s face it. I have a bit of a crush on the shy but steady bearded boy who’s just a little bit behind my swing level, giving me an edge of confidence that puts ideas in my head. Grisly only comes out of hiding occasionally, looking like it took all of his nerve to come and ask me to dance. This could be because (a) he covertly dances with his girlfriend most of the night and only looks for some other partnerless girl when she goes to the bathroom, or (b) because he thinks I’m super cute! I have nothing more to say on the matter other than he peaked my interest last night, so today I’m hoping for option b.
I actually don’t want to talk about myself right now though. Shocking, I know. I do want to talk about one of my favorite people in the whole swing universe, Peggy. I met Peggy a little over a year ago when I started working for her, and it was love at first sight. Peggy is a fashion icon to the girls in our workplace. Every day she breezes in looking like a vintage fashion plate from the 20s, 30s, 40s, or 50s, often wearing a hat of her own crafting. Peggy is not only fabulously beautiful and fashionable, but she is also truly unassuming about her glamour. She’s bighearted, modest, mischievous, witty, sensitive, sincere, and a terrific dancer to boot! Simply put: She is dazzling inside and out.
So why would someone this amazing have any trouble getting someone to ask her to dance?
That’s the question Apple Guy and I were faced with last night when we found ourselves once again walking to the subway together. (Please try to keep in mind that he is admittedly only attracted to Asian women before your minds go running to a seedy romantic gutter in which they do not belong!) On our familiar walk, Apple Guy mentioned that last week (when I was scarcely speaking to him) he asked Peggy to dance with him for the very first time. Originally, he asked her if she was just taking a rest on the sidelines on purpose, as most advanced follows, such as herself, are on the dance floor all night long. However, much to his surprise, she responded that she, in fact, rarely got asked to dance.
Enter the rakish, handsome, exceedingly popular swing teacher, “Woody Bellagamba.” AKA: Peggy’s husband. I know, I know, Woody and Peggy’s combined names may seem too quaint a bit of assonance to bear for all the days of this blog. Trust me; there was just no getting around it.
Now, Woody Bellagamba is 100% extraordinary in his own right. He’s a marvelous professional swing dancer with his own flair for vintage fashion. In sexy opposition to each other, at first glance, Woody is a rougher, roguish, definitively male answer to Peggy’s lady-like demeanor. They’re like a grown-up version Sandy and Danny from Grease, minus the singing and camp. Whereas Peggy excels in all things ballroom, Woody prefers the down and dirty, fast-paced world of lindy hop. They’re the Green Acres couple of the dance studio. Hold on a minute while I think of another old school film or tv reference to better explain how I see their relationship. He’s Mork; she’s Mindy. He’s the Ghost; she’s Mrs. Muir. He’s Oscar; she’s Felix. He’s Scarecrow; she’s Mrs. King. He’s Rock; she’s Doris. He’s Cagney; she’s Lacey. If Mary Tyler Moore could date the Fonze, you’d get Peggy and Woody. Get it? It works. It’s hot!
…to the untrained eye!
Actually, they’re smoldering in any light. But when you see Woody cutting a rug all night with every lovely swing enthusiast tart on the floor, while Peggy waits in hope of a partner on the side, you start to wonder. Now don’t get me wrong; they do dance together. Because it draws on their combined dance fortes, they dance a particularly mean Peabody. But whether Woody is aware of it or not, he’s like a rooster in a hen house when it comes to our little dance studio. All the women want him. Hell, last time I checked, I wanted him! (Don’t worry, Peggy. It’s a purely figurative lust.) So, while Woody happily swings with all of his students, Peggy, who is also clearly adored by her own male following, has a huge, invisible, rubber stamp on her hat that says:
Property of Mr. Woody Bellagamba. Hands off!
It’s sad, but true. You can look at her perfect porcelain features, but there’s a general sense that you can’t touch ‘em. Apple Guy couldn’t help but feel as though he was trespassing when he first approached her last week. And such is Peggy’s plight. She follows her husband to many a dance function within their charming swing community, and often watches him dance with the rest of the ladies in attendance from afar. But even though Apple Guy and I felt distressed when we realized that Peggy was not getting all the dance happiness she deserves, it didn’t diminish one ounce of the delight we each felt in being or, in his case, becoming her friend. I told Apple Guy about how Peggy started taking advanced ballroom classes with a competitor of our regular dance studio- someplace where there wasn’t so much social red tape to wade through. We both thought- Good for her!. Even Apple Guy, who barely knows her, can see that Peggy is a particularly amazing woman. Her qualities are, in fact, sometimes intimidating. And to all those cowards who let some preposterous idea about Woody (who, I must admit, I adore) or fear of a beautiful woman stop you from asking such a fine lady to dance, I say you made the right decision. Seriously, well done.
She’s way too good for you.
Love,
Sara
4.03.2008
Chief No Like Cowboy Girl
Dear Swing Enthusiast,
The trouble with having a secret blog about people at swing class is that if you welcome a reader of said blog to join your swing community… well, you’re just asking for trouble.
Sounds like something I would do.
Okay, so I invited a hot lesbian co-worker to swing last Friday. Double entendres aside, I think she had a lot of fun. In fact, I know she did, because she signed up to take swing class regularly this month. So, as we were leaving the studio on Friday, I teasingly mentioned that she might be in next week’s blog entry. The look on her face was something akin to homicidal terror. Not much was said, but the message was clear: Don’t you dare!
My first blog conflict-of-interest dilemma! I both hope and dread it is the first of many. I feel more like a lady-gumshoe-reporter-tough-cookie-Rosalind-Russell-type with a real ethical writing issue to grapple with on Thursday morning when my head clears after a night of swing.
Well, of course I’m going to write about her! She was an integral part of my dance experience last night. A compromise had to be made. So, whether the lady in question understood the terms fully or not, in exchange for getting to choose her own blog name, I’m writing her in! And her name is… (drum roll, please)…
COWBOY GIRL
That name could not be more appropriate to the role she played in my dancing life this past week. The title says it all, folks.
On that fateful Friday that Cowboy Girl came to take a free introductory salsa / swing class, she brought a friend, who we’ll call “Tonto,” to join in on the fun. Cowboy Girl, Tonto and I were having a ball delving into the unknown world of salsa. Cowboy Girl was really serious about learning the dance, while Tonto was kinda-sorta-maybe serious about getting a date with the coat check boy. As the swing class began and all of our mutual priorities briefly aligned at the introduction of something new, I found myself in the middle of a Sara sandwich, with a slice of Tonto and Cowboy Girl on either side. We were literally a swinging threesome when I looked up to see none other than The Chief staring at me from across the bustling room of beginners. I was a little incensed by the unnerving, cocky grin dancing across his face. Let him wonder about my compromising position, I thought. I was there to have fun with no strings attached for a change.
Soon after we began the swing portion of the evening, our lovely swing teacher recognized that I was an advanced dancer and took me as her partner to illustrate the moves she was teaching. I like to call this token gesture of flattery being the “Vanna White” of the class. So, there I was turning blank squares into vowels and consonants with my bare hands while the Chief bore his eyes into my skull for the entire class. I tried not look at him, and every time I did casually peek over at the ubiquitous Chief, there he would be, practically undressing me with his beady, elderly eyes. Remember when I thought we could just be friends? Boy, was I wrong!
Just before the class ended, I was trying to plan my escape from dancing with The Chief at the top of the impending practice session. I decided I would simply barrel toward Cowboy Girl as soon as my Vanna duties were over. When I cast a furtive glance in The Chief’s direction to see if my plan stood a chance, he was gone. Perhaps he’d given up on me after all. A wave of bittersweet relief washed over me. I spent the rest of the evening delightedly swinging with my newbie dance partners without incident.
On my own that night, long after swing had ended, I received a text message from The Chief. All it said was:
new bo?
I didn’t really know what to say. I didn’t want to lie, but I didn’t want to give him the idea that I was still open to his advances. In the end, I didn’t respond at all.
Last night’s regular swing schedule was lovely for the most part. Cowboy Girl signed up a femme friend we’ll call “Gal Pal” to take a month of swing class along side her. We all had great classes and practiced on into the night. I paid no special attention to, but did not entirely ignore Apple Guy, much to Peggy’s vexation. Apparently, some people think Apple Guy and I still have a chance. I wouldn’t bet the ranch on it, ladies. I danced with some terrific partners and even deluded myself into thinking a good number of them desired me. (This blog has truly affected my head.) The only problem to speak of last night was The Chief.
The man just won’t quit! He couldn't help noticing that Cowboy Girl and Gal Pal made a very cute couple. Suddenly, Cowboy Girl was no longer a threat in his mind. Some pal you are, Cowboy! The Chief then stole at least five too many dances from me even when he was too tired to lead them properly, and asked me out on a date again to boot! When I declined, he started to give me the third degree about my plans on the night in question. Thankfully, my whole posse made their exit before there was a throw-down.
When I think back on my relationship with The Chief thus far- at first thinking our camaraderie was wholly innocent, then pushing past any awkward discomfort to forge an unconventional friendship, and now feeling loathsome and trapped by his sheer presence- I am full of regret. Wouldn’t the poor Chief be sad to know what a joke I think his advances are now? I feel bad for him. He’s so lonely and he’s convinced himself that I’m his dream girl... or at least his dream lay. I have to remind myself to be flattered. At least I’m somebody’s dream girl, right?
Yours truly,
Sara
The trouble with having a secret blog about people at swing class is that if you welcome a reader of said blog to join your swing community… well, you’re just asking for trouble.
Sounds like something I would do.
Okay, so I invited a hot lesbian co-worker to swing last Friday. Double entendres aside, I think she had a lot of fun. In fact, I know she did, because she signed up to take swing class regularly this month. So, as we were leaving the studio on Friday, I teasingly mentioned that she might be in next week’s blog entry. The look on her face was something akin to homicidal terror. Not much was said, but the message was clear: Don’t you dare!
My first blog conflict-of-interest dilemma! I both hope and dread it is the first of many. I feel more like a lady-gumshoe-reporter-tough-cookie-Rosalind-Russell-type with a real ethical writing issue to grapple with on Thursday morning when my head clears after a night of swing.
Well, of course I’m going to write about her! She was an integral part of my dance experience last night. A compromise had to be made. So, whether the lady in question understood the terms fully or not, in exchange for getting to choose her own blog name, I’m writing her in! And her name is… (drum roll, please)…
COWBOY GIRL
That name could not be more appropriate to the role she played in my dancing life this past week. The title says it all, folks.
On that fateful Friday that Cowboy Girl came to take a free introductory salsa / swing class, she brought a friend, who we’ll call “Tonto,” to join in on the fun. Cowboy Girl, Tonto and I were having a ball delving into the unknown world of salsa. Cowboy Girl was really serious about learning the dance, while Tonto was kinda-sorta-maybe serious about getting a date with the coat check boy. As the swing class began and all of our mutual priorities briefly aligned at the introduction of something new, I found myself in the middle of a Sara sandwich, with a slice of Tonto and Cowboy Girl on either side. We were literally a swinging threesome when I looked up to see none other than The Chief staring at me from across the bustling room of beginners. I was a little incensed by the unnerving, cocky grin dancing across his face. Let him wonder about my compromising position, I thought. I was there to have fun with no strings attached for a change.
Soon after we began the swing portion of the evening, our lovely swing teacher recognized that I was an advanced dancer and took me as her partner to illustrate the moves she was teaching. I like to call this token gesture of flattery being the “Vanna White” of the class. So, there I was turning blank squares into vowels and consonants with my bare hands while the Chief bore his eyes into my skull for the entire class. I tried not look at him, and every time I did casually peek over at the ubiquitous Chief, there he would be, practically undressing me with his beady, elderly eyes. Remember when I thought we could just be friends? Boy, was I wrong!
Just before the class ended, I was trying to plan my escape from dancing with The Chief at the top of the impending practice session. I decided I would simply barrel toward Cowboy Girl as soon as my Vanna duties were over. When I cast a furtive glance in The Chief’s direction to see if my plan stood a chance, he was gone. Perhaps he’d given up on me after all. A wave of bittersweet relief washed over me. I spent the rest of the evening delightedly swinging with my newbie dance partners without incident.
On my own that night, long after swing had ended, I received a text message from The Chief. All it said was:
new bo?
I didn’t really know what to say. I didn’t want to lie, but I didn’t want to give him the idea that I was still open to his advances. In the end, I didn’t respond at all.
Last night’s regular swing schedule was lovely for the most part. Cowboy Girl signed up a femme friend we’ll call “Gal Pal” to take a month of swing class along side her. We all had great classes and practiced on into the night. I paid no special attention to, but did not entirely ignore Apple Guy, much to Peggy’s vexation. Apparently, some people think Apple Guy and I still have a chance. I wouldn’t bet the ranch on it, ladies. I danced with some terrific partners and even deluded myself into thinking a good number of them desired me. (This blog has truly affected my head.) The only problem to speak of last night was The Chief.
The man just won’t quit! He couldn't help noticing that Cowboy Girl and Gal Pal made a very cute couple. Suddenly, Cowboy Girl was no longer a threat in his mind. Some pal you are, Cowboy! The Chief then stole at least five too many dances from me even when he was too tired to lead them properly, and asked me out on a date again to boot! When I declined, he started to give me the third degree about my plans on the night in question. Thankfully, my whole posse made their exit before there was a throw-down.
When I think back on my relationship with The Chief thus far- at first thinking our camaraderie was wholly innocent, then pushing past any awkward discomfort to forge an unconventional friendship, and now feeling loathsome and trapped by his sheer presence- I am full of regret. Wouldn’t the poor Chief be sad to know what a joke I think his advances are now? I feel bad for him. He’s so lonely and he’s convinced himself that I’m his dream girl... or at least his dream lay. I have to remind myself to be flattered. At least I’m somebody’s dream girl, right?
Yours truly,
Sara
3.27.2008
He's Just Not That Into Me
Dear Swing Enthusiast,
Apple Guy and I broke up last night. Please disregard my last entry. It was wishful thinking. In a word: denial. In fact, forget everything I ever said about Apple Guy. I was wrong.
The truth is he's just not that into me. I had a teacher who lived by that book, He's Just Not That Into You, which they're now making into a movie starring Scarlett Johansson, Jennifer Aniston, Jennifer Connelly, and Drew Barrymore- you know, women that everybody is into. Give me a break!
It all started on Sunday. After my last entry, I was beginning to suspect Apple Guy was, indeed, just not that into me; however, he seemed determined to prove me wrong. I went to a much-romanticized annual Easter bonnet promenading event with Peggy, wearing one of her amazing hat creations (she's an extraordinary milliner) on loan to me for the day. Much to my surprise, Apple Guy came with his parents to see me in my vintage glory. Ladies and gentlemen, he wanted to introduce me to his parents. The Apple Parents took pictures of Apple Guy and I promenading together. It was as if I was at my own engagement party, but I'd never even kissed the groom. It was weird.
I couldn't get the gesture of dragging his parents across town on a holiday to see me wearing a pretty hat out of my mind. On Monday, while I was daydreaming about Apple Guy, I got a very unexpected text message from The Chief.
The Chief: I dreamt about u in ur easter bonnet / in my dream it was all u were wearing / talk about a happy easter
Unbelievable. You can't just text that to a girl out of the blue! At least attempt to warm me up to such a comment first. Test the waters a little! (Although, I doubt there is anything he could have written that would have made me swoon.) This is, of course, all less than a week after I turned down his offer to whisk me away to Costa Rica to share his vacation and, I can only assume, his bed. The Chief still thinks he has a chance of laying me! The more I look at The Chief, the more I see a dirty old man who I've been blind to for entirely too long. He may smell really, really good and treat my like a princess, but nice words don't mean as much when they come with strings attached. I'd had just about enough!
Last night was pretty uneventful in terms of classroom drama. I had some balance issues when it came to the Charleston and felt generally out of practice, but I enjoyed many exhilarating dances despite my two left feet. Apple Guy, The Chief, a new bashful boy I'll call "Grizzly Adam" (yes, he has a beard), and a host of other leaders asked me to dance. I enjoyed myself immensely!
Apple Guy had to leave the practice session early, because the Apple Parents were still in town. Before he left, we attempted to have a conversation off on the side of practice. Much to Apple Guy's disappointment, I kept getting asked to dance. I had just enough time to ask after his parents and tell him about The Chief’s tawdry text. I danced long after he left and began my solo walk to the subway one exhausted step at a time. Just before I got on the subway, I received a text from Apple Guy. The evidence speaks for itself:
Apple Guy: i had a dream that the chief was wearing nothing but your easter bonnet. creeped me out.
Me: Eewww! You’re disgusting. I love it!
Apple Guy: thought you’d like that. seriously you looked so great on easter. nice to see you having fun.
Me: Hey, I didn’t tell you yet. I found a roommate and I have a move out date of June 1. Big step!
Apple Guy (sent before he read my last text): so, were you watching me to see if i was checking out laura tonight?
Me: What!? Who’s Laura?
Apple Guy: slim, attractive girl in our classes.
Me: The pretty Asian girl?
Apple Guy: yes. i felt like you were watching me very closely when we were talking after class.
Me: I honestly have no idea what you are talking about.
Apple Guy: sorry. it’s just me being paranoid. i didn’t mean to ruin our conversation about the chief’s naked easter romp. ignore me.
But, of course, I could not ignore him.
Me: I think we’re just meant to be friends, Apple Guy. I’m obviously not your type. You’re feeling guilty or weird about talking to other girls at swing. There’s no pressure. We’ll always have hot cocoa…
Apple Guy: i like hot cocoa. :-( i feel bad because I really like you and you are so good to me. but you are right when you say you are not my usual type.
I didn’t know what to say I was so confused and offended. But at least he was honest.
Me: I would never want someone to be half-heartedly into me. I’m adorable and special. And you’re sweet and I’m glad you’re my swing friend.
Apple Guy: you are so adorable and special. swing would be so boring without you! this is a hard conversations to have over text. i don’t know how you’re feeling right now.
How was I feeling? Really stupid and foolish sounds about right.
Me: I’m fine. Really. This is what I want too. I was just getting mixed messages and didn’t really know how I felt about it either way.
Which is actually true.
Apple Guy: yeah, I was all mixed up about it, too.
Obviously.
Apple Guy: can I still text you about my naked chief dreams?
Me: Well, I’d be disappointed if you didn’t.
Apple Guy: and email you naked pictures of myself?
Me: Save that for the Asian women…
Apple Guy: gasp. but well said and well deserved.
And we left it at that. I felt like my phone was kicking me in the teeth with every new message notification buzz. I felt pathetic and needy and clownishly redundant. It wasn't that I was in love with Apple Guy. Far from it. But Apple Guy represented the possibility of someone decent, charming, and vaguely my age (!) who actually wanted to pursue me. He made me feel like my newfound break up was the start of something endearing and new, rather than the end of all happiness as I knew it.
I suddenly felt like maybe I would never, ever find someone who really saw and adored only me. Me.
I came home and gave into the ultimate comforting temptation. I softly, achingly kissed my ex girlfriend while she slept. At least she would wake up and kiss me back. But then I remembered part of the reason we were no longer officially "together" is because I did not feel "kissed back" by her with any consistency. I held her tightly to me and realized for the billionth time that I have never loved anyone as much as I do her and most of the time it felt like I never, ever would. I rested on the warmth of my unsatisfying lover’s body and suffocated on self-pity until sleep put me out of my misery, if only for a little while.
Sincerely,
Sara
Apple Guy and I broke up last night. Please disregard my last entry. It was wishful thinking. In a word: denial. In fact, forget everything I ever said about Apple Guy. I was wrong.
The truth is he's just not that into me. I had a teacher who lived by that book, He's Just Not That Into You, which they're now making into a movie starring Scarlett Johansson, Jennifer Aniston, Jennifer Connelly, and Drew Barrymore- you know, women that everybody is into. Give me a break!
It all started on Sunday. After my last entry, I was beginning to suspect Apple Guy was, indeed, just not that into me; however, he seemed determined to prove me wrong. I went to a much-romanticized annual Easter bonnet promenading event with Peggy, wearing one of her amazing hat creations (she's an extraordinary milliner) on loan to me for the day. Much to my surprise, Apple Guy came with his parents to see me in my vintage glory. Ladies and gentlemen, he wanted to introduce me to his parents. The Apple Parents took pictures of Apple Guy and I promenading together. It was as if I was at my own engagement party, but I'd never even kissed the groom. It was weird.
I couldn't get the gesture of dragging his parents across town on a holiday to see me wearing a pretty hat out of my mind. On Monday, while I was daydreaming about Apple Guy, I got a very unexpected text message from The Chief.
The Chief: I dreamt about u in ur easter bonnet / in my dream it was all u were wearing / talk about a happy easter
Unbelievable. You can't just text that to a girl out of the blue! At least attempt to warm me up to such a comment first. Test the waters a little! (Although, I doubt there is anything he could have written that would have made me swoon.) This is, of course, all less than a week after I turned down his offer to whisk me away to Costa Rica to share his vacation and, I can only assume, his bed. The Chief still thinks he has a chance of laying me! The more I look at The Chief, the more I see a dirty old man who I've been blind to for entirely too long. He may smell really, really good and treat my like a princess, but nice words don't mean as much when they come with strings attached. I'd had just about enough!
Last night was pretty uneventful in terms of classroom drama. I had some balance issues when it came to the Charleston and felt generally out of practice, but I enjoyed many exhilarating dances despite my two left feet. Apple Guy, The Chief, a new bashful boy I'll call "Grizzly Adam" (yes, he has a beard), and a host of other leaders asked me to dance. I enjoyed myself immensely!
Apple Guy had to leave the practice session early, because the Apple Parents were still in town. Before he left, we attempted to have a conversation off on the side of practice. Much to Apple Guy's disappointment, I kept getting asked to dance. I had just enough time to ask after his parents and tell him about The Chief’s tawdry text. I danced long after he left and began my solo walk to the subway one exhausted step at a time. Just before I got on the subway, I received a text from Apple Guy. The evidence speaks for itself:
Apple Guy: i had a dream that the chief was wearing nothing but your easter bonnet. creeped me out.
Me: Eewww! You’re disgusting. I love it!
Apple Guy: thought you’d like that. seriously you looked so great on easter. nice to see you having fun.
Me: Hey, I didn’t tell you yet. I found a roommate and I have a move out date of June 1. Big step!
Apple Guy (sent before he read my last text): so, were you watching me to see if i was checking out laura tonight?
Me: What!? Who’s Laura?
Apple Guy: slim, attractive girl in our classes.
Me: The pretty Asian girl?
Apple Guy: yes. i felt like you were watching me very closely when we were talking after class.
Me: I honestly have no idea what you are talking about.
Apple Guy: sorry. it’s just me being paranoid. i didn’t mean to ruin our conversation about the chief’s naked easter romp. ignore me.
But, of course, I could not ignore him.
Me: I think we’re just meant to be friends, Apple Guy. I’m obviously not your type. You’re feeling guilty or weird about talking to other girls at swing. There’s no pressure. We’ll always have hot cocoa…
Apple Guy: i like hot cocoa. :-( i feel bad because I really like you and you are so good to me. but you are right when you say you are not my usual type.
I didn’t know what to say I was so confused and offended. But at least he was honest.
Me: I would never want someone to be half-heartedly into me. I’m adorable and special. And you’re sweet and I’m glad you’re my swing friend.
Apple Guy: you are so adorable and special. swing would be so boring without you! this is a hard conversations to have over text. i don’t know how you’re feeling right now.
How was I feeling? Really stupid and foolish sounds about right.
Me: I’m fine. Really. This is what I want too. I was just getting mixed messages and didn’t really know how I felt about it either way.
Which is actually true.
Apple Guy: yeah, I was all mixed up about it, too.
Obviously.
Apple Guy: can I still text you about my naked chief dreams?
Me: Well, I’d be disappointed if you didn’t.
Apple Guy: and email you naked pictures of myself?
Me: Save that for the Asian women…
Apple Guy: gasp. but well said and well deserved.
And we left it at that. I felt like my phone was kicking me in the teeth with every new message notification buzz. I felt pathetic and needy and clownishly redundant. It wasn't that I was in love with Apple Guy. Far from it. But Apple Guy represented the possibility of someone decent, charming, and vaguely my age (!) who actually wanted to pursue me. He made me feel like my newfound break up was the start of something endearing and new, rather than the end of all happiness as I knew it.
I suddenly felt like maybe I would never, ever find someone who really saw and adored only me. Me.
I came home and gave into the ultimate comforting temptation. I softly, achingly kissed my ex girlfriend while she slept. At least she would wake up and kiss me back. But then I remembered part of the reason we were no longer officially "together" is because I did not feel "kissed back" by her with any consistency. I held her tightly to me and realized for the billionth time that I have never loved anyone as much as I do her and most of the time it felt like I never, ever would. I rested on the warmth of my unsatisfying lover’s body and suffocated on self-pity until sleep put me out of my misery, if only for a little while.
Sincerely,
Sara
3.20.2008
Mixed Singles
Dear Swing Enthusiast,
I’m beginning to think I do not understand men at all.
Last week, as you may have noticed, I wasn't able to attend my regularly scheduled swing programming. Peggy reports that when the teacher called my name while taking the attendance, The Chief, Apple Guy, as well as Peggy, herself, all exclaimed I could not attend from three different corners of the room. I'm told it gave the illusion of my excessive popularity. It’s just the right mix of embarrassing and flattering behavior on the part of my main suitors to fatten my ego up a couple of dress sizes. Oh, how the mighty fall…
As you know, Apple Guy and I have been embroiled in a flirtation for some weeks now. After many nights of dancing, languid walks, and romantic winter conversations over hot chocolate at Le Starbucks, I have the distinct impression that Apple Guy is just waiting a few months for me to be officially through with the more-complicated-than-it-has-to-be "roommate" situation to make his move, which, for the record, I wouldn't have any other way... I think.
Apple Guy and I text all the time. From funny, nonsensical blurbs about our day to the occasional string of tawdry bedroom language, if we can think it, chances are we can abbreviate it for the purposes of flirty, effective text messaging teases. But, I’m pleased to announce, last Wednesday marked a radical shift in Apple Guy and my relationship.
He called me!
Yes, that’s right. Oral contact! Of course, I didn’t actually take the call, but rather stared at the phone in shock while, perhaps, squealing a little. Answering the phone didn’t matter. He left the sweetest message just to let me know he missed me at swing and was hoping I was doing well. Call me easy, but I was touched that he thought to call and still am. Apple Guy’s stock was rapidly rising!
Eventually, I called him back when I knew he’d be at work. And he answered anyway! We had a lovely conversation, which ended with him proposing a Saturday non-swing-affiliated hot chocolate date! My head was spinning we were moving so fast.
Fast forward to last Friday night on the eve of our impending cocoa tryst. I’m working one of my many starving artist survival jobs, which happens to be in Apple Guy’s neighborhood, when I get a text from the man himself:
happy friday, sara! i don’t know what to do with myself tonight. what r u doing? any plans?
I am, of course, amused by his thinly veiled proposition to spend a little of my Friday night with my Apple Guy would-be-beau. I decide to play this texting thread out while I figure out if I smell decent enough to paint the town red after working two jobs all day…
Me: I’m working in your ‘hood. What do you want to do tonight?
Apple Guy: just not sit at home alone and depressed.
Me: Oh no. Why depressed? :-/
Apple Guy: just my usual friday night nothing to do sadness. plus I got rejected by a girl the other day.
I’m not sure, but I imagine my head must have cocked to the side and my brow must have simultaneously furrowed after reading that last bit. What an unexpected remark! Perhaps Apple Guy was trying to be ironic. There was only one way to find out…
Me: Who? What did this girl do?
Apple Guy: just this girl at the office I liked for a while. i finally had the courage to ask her out. we did go out once. then yesterday she told me she doesn’t have time to date anyone. broke my heart.
You heard it here first, ladies and gentlemen. BROKE. HIS. HEART. Maybe he was just being honest. Maybe he was trying to let me know he wasn’t going to wait around forever for me to get myself completely disengaged. There is no doubt in my mind we’ve BOTH been into each other on a more-than-friends level up until this text messaging snafu, so why on Earth would he think I wanted to hear this? I mean, just because The Chief asked me to go away with him on an innuendo-drenched all expense paid vacation to Costa Rica at swing last night, doesn’t mean I advertise it to the world, especially to my other romantic entanglements. That’s what secret blogs are for, people! I was beginning to get the distinct impression that Apple Guy had suddenly decided to give me the brush off. But I thought, “Fine, Apple Guy, I’ll play into your twisted texting game.” I was going to kill him with kindness. The texts continued:
Me: Well, I’m sorry to hear that. Your girl is obviously on crazy pills. You’re 100% adorable.
Apple Guy: thanks, sara. u r pretty wonderful yourself.
What?! Yeah, don’t do my any favors, Apple Dick. Oh, and thanks for not calling me to have that hot chocolate on Saturday. What exactly is he playing at? What happened? Where did my sweet nerd man go? My disappointment knew no bounds.
Despite this setback, I had a blast at swing last night. The Chief offered me the world. (And, no, I did not accept.) The Commie kept his distance. Peggy and I started rumors in the corner like schoolgirls. I danced a few with some of the more advanced dancers, who recognized I was ready to follow their lead, broke a serious sweat, and forgot everything but the lindy for most of the evening.
Eventually, Apple Guy did approach me for a chat on the sidelines of the bustling practice session. He immediately apologized for standing me up for our hot chocolate date. He “forgot.” I hate to say it, but he was attentive, sensitive, and good humored during our chat. How confusing! We found ourselves looking out into the sea of dancers, specifically at Little Miss Perfect cutting an impressive rug. Perhaps I shouldn’t have, but I decided to let Apple Guy in on how it was I knew Little Miss Perfect and how sometimes seeing her brought back these negative feelings about our past experience together in the class from hell. She took swing so seriously, attacked it with all of her gusto, and, at the end of the day, was better than me just like she used to be in college. I confessed to him that I felt a little jealous whenever I saw her. Apple Guy, in turn, observed that Little Miss Perfect never looked like she was having any fun, while I radiated joy whenever I danced. He said he couldn’t take his eyes off me.
Yeah, I forgave him.
Yours,
Sara
I’m beginning to think I do not understand men at all.
Last week, as you may have noticed, I wasn't able to attend my regularly scheduled swing programming. Peggy reports that when the teacher called my name while taking the attendance, The Chief, Apple Guy, as well as Peggy, herself, all exclaimed I could not attend from three different corners of the room. I'm told it gave the illusion of my excessive popularity. It’s just the right mix of embarrassing and flattering behavior on the part of my main suitors to fatten my ego up a couple of dress sizes. Oh, how the mighty fall…
As you know, Apple Guy and I have been embroiled in a flirtation for some weeks now. After many nights of dancing, languid walks, and romantic winter conversations over hot chocolate at Le Starbucks, I have the distinct impression that Apple Guy is just waiting a few months for me to be officially through with the more-complicated-than-it-has-to-be "roommate" situation to make his move, which, for the record, I wouldn't have any other way... I think.
Apple Guy and I text all the time. From funny, nonsensical blurbs about our day to the occasional string of tawdry bedroom language, if we can think it, chances are we can abbreviate it for the purposes of flirty, effective text messaging teases. But, I’m pleased to announce, last Wednesday marked a radical shift in Apple Guy and my relationship.
He called me!
Yes, that’s right. Oral contact! Of course, I didn’t actually take the call, but rather stared at the phone in shock while, perhaps, squealing a little. Answering the phone didn’t matter. He left the sweetest message just to let me know he missed me at swing and was hoping I was doing well. Call me easy, but I was touched that he thought to call and still am. Apple Guy’s stock was rapidly rising!
Eventually, I called him back when I knew he’d be at work. And he answered anyway! We had a lovely conversation, which ended with him proposing a Saturday non-swing-affiliated hot chocolate date! My head was spinning we were moving so fast.
Fast forward to last Friday night on the eve of our impending cocoa tryst. I’m working one of my many starving artist survival jobs, which happens to be in Apple Guy’s neighborhood, when I get a text from the man himself:
happy friday, sara! i don’t know what to do with myself tonight. what r u doing? any plans?
I am, of course, amused by his thinly veiled proposition to spend a little of my Friday night with my Apple Guy would-be-beau. I decide to play this texting thread out while I figure out if I smell decent enough to paint the town red after working two jobs all day…
Me: I’m working in your ‘hood. What do you want to do tonight?
Apple Guy: just not sit at home alone and depressed.
Me: Oh no. Why depressed? :-/
Apple Guy: just my usual friday night nothing to do sadness. plus I got rejected by a girl the other day.
I’m not sure, but I imagine my head must have cocked to the side and my brow must have simultaneously furrowed after reading that last bit. What an unexpected remark! Perhaps Apple Guy was trying to be ironic. There was only one way to find out…
Me: Who? What did this girl do?
Apple Guy: just this girl at the office I liked for a while. i finally had the courage to ask her out. we did go out once. then yesterday she told me she doesn’t have time to date anyone. broke my heart.
You heard it here first, ladies and gentlemen. BROKE. HIS. HEART. Maybe he was just being honest. Maybe he was trying to let me know he wasn’t going to wait around forever for me to get myself completely disengaged. There is no doubt in my mind we’ve BOTH been into each other on a more-than-friends level up until this text messaging snafu, so why on Earth would he think I wanted to hear this? I mean, just because The Chief asked me to go away with him on an innuendo-drenched all expense paid vacation to Costa Rica at swing last night, doesn’t mean I advertise it to the world, especially to my other romantic entanglements. That’s what secret blogs are for, people! I was beginning to get the distinct impression that Apple Guy had suddenly decided to give me the brush off. But I thought, “Fine, Apple Guy, I’ll play into your twisted texting game.” I was going to kill him with kindness. The texts continued:
Me: Well, I’m sorry to hear that. Your girl is obviously on crazy pills. You’re 100% adorable.
Apple Guy: thanks, sara. u r pretty wonderful yourself.
What?! Yeah, don’t do my any favors, Apple Dick. Oh, and thanks for not calling me to have that hot chocolate on Saturday. What exactly is he playing at? What happened? Where did my sweet nerd man go? My disappointment knew no bounds.
Despite this setback, I had a blast at swing last night. The Chief offered me the world. (And, no, I did not accept.) The Commie kept his distance. Peggy and I started rumors in the corner like schoolgirls. I danced a few with some of the more advanced dancers, who recognized I was ready to follow their lead, broke a serious sweat, and forgot everything but the lindy for most of the evening.
Eventually, Apple Guy did approach me for a chat on the sidelines of the bustling practice session. He immediately apologized for standing me up for our hot chocolate date. He “forgot.” I hate to say it, but he was attentive, sensitive, and good humored during our chat. How confusing! We found ourselves looking out into the sea of dancers, specifically at Little Miss Perfect cutting an impressive rug. Perhaps I shouldn’t have, but I decided to let Apple Guy in on how it was I knew Little Miss Perfect and how sometimes seeing her brought back these negative feelings about our past experience together in the class from hell. She took swing so seriously, attacked it with all of her gusto, and, at the end of the day, was better than me just like she used to be in college. I confessed to him that I felt a little jealous whenever I saw her. Apple Guy, in turn, observed that Little Miss Perfect never looked like she was having any fun, while I radiated joy whenever I danced. He said he couldn’t take his eyes off me.
Yeah, I forgave him.
Yours,
Sara
3.06.2008
Little Miss Perfect
Dear Swing Enthusiast,
It really is a small world. After a particularly rigorous Charleston class, a fellow swing student ran up to me last night, because she recognized me from a past life. Actually, it was not really a past life, so much as… college. We had taken a particularly memorable art class together, during which I may or may not have threw a temper tantrum and stormed from the class while screaming at the professor, wading in a bucket of my own tears. As it slowly and dreadfully dawned on me who she was and why I must be so 100% memorable to her, I couldn’t help noticing how fantastic she looked. There she was- healthier, sexier, and more glowing than I remembered- bringing back memories of a deeply embarrassing, painful period of my early youth. I had no choice but to dub her “Little Miss Perfect.”
Of course, it turns out she’s officially enrolled in all of my swing classes. We went through the motions of exchanging numbers, offering artistic assistance (aka: showing off anything resembling status we’ve achieved in true high school reunion fashion), and pretending to be thrilled to see each other after all this time.
Of course, The Chief remains convinced I was shamelessly flirting with this girl for his benefit, as all lesbian cock-teases like to do, but, alas, that wasn’t the case…
Yet, in true Little Miss Perfect style, she did genuinely look thrilled to see me. After all, she initially ran up to me in what could definitely be described as a moment of enthusiastic discovery on her part. So, maybe the disingenuous social robotics were, in fact, completely one-sided, making me less and less perfect in the face of Little Miss Perfect’s magnanimous optimism and grace.
I wanted to set fire to her little, perfect, BLONDE head.
When I took a deep breath and acknowledged that the crazy, negative voices of jealousy were trying to take over, it suddenly occurred to me that The Chief might not be too far from the mark after all. Judging from our brief, casual history together and a few time-honored stereotypes completely devoid of fact (aka: GAYDAR), Little Miss Perfect could certainly be gay. Although I hesitate to say for sure if that was the case, just the thought of the now exponentially greater romantic possibilities and mishaps that might await me at swing left me dizzy. Genuine swingers meeting at swing- what a novel thought!
If nothing else, it was clear to me that Little Miss Perfect did not remember me as the immature basket case I thought she might. In fact, she seemed to remember me for what I was busting out of that classroom 5 years ago trying to be: a dignified human being. Maybe I wasn’t the only one who thought that professor was a dastardly prick! Maybe she actually saw how mistreated and powerless I felt back then. Maybe she was happy to have an opportunity to subtly let me know that she thought what I did took guts. Maybe her empathetic compassionate side outweighs her competitive judgmental side. Maybe she really is... perfect.
Or maybe she’s just another lonely, eager artist living in the city, happy to see a familiar face in a sea of swinging strangers. Someone not so different from me.
Time will only tell.
Sincerely,
Sara
It really is a small world. After a particularly rigorous Charleston class, a fellow swing student ran up to me last night, because she recognized me from a past life. Actually, it was not really a past life, so much as… college. We had taken a particularly memorable art class together, during which I may or may not have threw a temper tantrum and stormed from the class while screaming at the professor, wading in a bucket of my own tears. As it slowly and dreadfully dawned on me who she was and why I must be so 100% memorable to her, I couldn’t help noticing how fantastic she looked. There she was- healthier, sexier, and more glowing than I remembered- bringing back memories of a deeply embarrassing, painful period of my early youth. I had no choice but to dub her “Little Miss Perfect.”
Of course, it turns out she’s officially enrolled in all of my swing classes. We went through the motions of exchanging numbers, offering artistic assistance (aka: showing off anything resembling status we’ve achieved in true high school reunion fashion), and pretending to be thrilled to see each other after all this time.
Of course, The Chief remains convinced I was shamelessly flirting with this girl for his benefit, as all lesbian cock-teases like to do, but, alas, that wasn’t the case…
Yet, in true Little Miss Perfect style, she did genuinely look thrilled to see me. After all, she initially ran up to me in what could definitely be described as a moment of enthusiastic discovery on her part. So, maybe the disingenuous social robotics were, in fact, completely one-sided, making me less and less perfect in the face of Little Miss Perfect’s magnanimous optimism and grace.
I wanted to set fire to her little, perfect, BLONDE head.
When I took a deep breath and acknowledged that the crazy, negative voices of jealousy were trying to take over, it suddenly occurred to me that The Chief might not be too far from the mark after all. Judging from our brief, casual history together and a few time-honored stereotypes completely devoid of fact (aka: GAYDAR), Little Miss Perfect could certainly be gay. Although I hesitate to say for sure if that was the case, just the thought of the now exponentially greater romantic possibilities and mishaps that might await me at swing left me dizzy. Genuine swingers meeting at swing- what a novel thought!
If nothing else, it was clear to me that Little Miss Perfect did not remember me as the immature basket case I thought she might. In fact, she seemed to remember me for what I was busting out of that classroom 5 years ago trying to be: a dignified human being. Maybe I wasn’t the only one who thought that professor was a dastardly prick! Maybe she actually saw how mistreated and powerless I felt back then. Maybe she was happy to have an opportunity to subtly let me know that she thought what I did took guts. Maybe her empathetic compassionate side outweighs her competitive judgmental side. Maybe she really is... perfect.
Or maybe she’s just another lonely, eager artist living in the city, happy to see a familiar face in a sea of swinging strangers. Someone not so different from me.
Time will only tell.
Sincerely,
Sara
2.28.2008
The Chief Who Loves Me
Dear Swing Enthusiast,
A number of factors led to the failure of my swing life last night. Apple Inc. took Apple Guy, along with all of his adorable nerd counterparts and their iPhones, on a ski weekend up north. Talk about a perk! Don’t get me wrong. My happiness doesn’t hinge on this one man’s presence. In fact, I was so stressed out and despondent last night, it’s probably better that he wasn’t around to see it. I think it was just the cherry on top of what has been a really difficult week thus far. I didn’t look good. I didn’t feel good. Bottom line: Last night sucked.
As I struggled through my classes, which require a certain amount of peppiness I was less than willing to deliver, nobody but my friend Peggy noticed my lack of enthusiasm. Nobody, that is, except The Chief.
The Chief and I have a complicated relationship. At times, we are almost like father and daughter, while at others we are more like Humbert Humbert and Lolita, but not nearly so graphic or illegal. It all started when I was just a novice, who was too afraid to risk rejection at the practice sessions after class to stick around for them. I would stay for a little while to talk to Peggy, who would occasionally guilt some ridiculously advanced dancer into dragging me around the floor, and then I would leave with my lust for dance unsatisfied. Until The Chief changed all that.
At first, I couldn’t stand him. As a follow to his dance lead, he seemed bossy and patronizing to me, but the more I learned, the more I realized he was genuinely trying to help me get better. He just wanted to dance. He hated it if a teacher rambled on and on about the theory of a particular step. He would say, “If I wanted to take talking lessons, I would have called my mother!” The Chief was a man of action.
We soon became unofficial swing partners. He was witty, charismatic, and there was no funny business because of our 35-year age difference. I know, I know. Boy was I naive! He started offering me a ride home after practice, and eventually, after checking Peggy’s opinion, I accepted. He's a retired Police Chief, after all. If you can’t trust a 60-year-old man with a badge, who the hell can you trust?
I can remember the exact moment I realized I was wrong about The Chief’s intentions. I was in the passenger seat of his car gabbing away delightedly. I was really proud of our friendship. He was my sweet, ol’ man mentor. The Chief made me feel special and I, in turn, made him feel wise. For a girl who grew up without a father, a relationship like ours was priceless. In appreciation of all his rides home, cutting my commute by more than half, I offered him complimentary theater tickets I have access to. He said he would only take me up on my offer if he could take me out for dinner directly following the play. Thing is, I hadn't planned on going with him! Was he suggesting we go on a date!?
After my initial feeling that he was, perhaps, courting me, I decided I must be reading too much into his proposal. Can't a friend treat another friend to a meal? He knows I'm a starving artist. It was probably just a sweet, friendly, decidedly platonic gesture, right?
Wrong! The next week at swing he asked for my phone number in a way that could leave little doubt he had his romantic sights on moi, which is when I broke the news to him. I was in a relationship. You may be asking yourself why I didn't mention my significant other to him before. Well, that's easy: my significant other was a really amazing girl. Yes, I'm gay. I have never been secretive about it. However, there never seemed to be a good time to tell the retired police chief, who might be- dare I say- conservative, about my bi-sexuality. There was no reason to risk our friendship over something that really didn't concern him. Now, I'm thinking maybe I should have at least dropped a hint!
The week after he made his move, swing was a little tense. The Chief had been pretty shocked when I said I was seeing someone, but when I told him I was with a woman, he couldn't help but grin. News flash: Guys love the thought of girl on girl action. The Chief was just tickled I was with a girl. I, on the other hand, found that night of swing painfully awkward. I didn't know how to act. Do I joke around with him? Do I push him away? Do I let him drive me home!?
As if in a dream, I found myself leaving the practice session early and sitting down to eat with The Chief at a burger joint across the street. I felt like I was floating above my body, watching myself follow The Chief's lead. The logic behind our meal was that friends were allowed to eat together. Before long, we established that friends were "allowed" to talk on the phone, text, email, eat, dance and even spend major holidays together.
Yes, you read that right; I spent New Year's Eve with The Chief.
In order to master the art of swing, you need to relinquish control to your dance partner. You literally need to follow his lead. Maybe I took this theory too far, but, then again, maybe not. The Chief and I are friends. He looks really good for his age, but we all have our limits, ladies. He never lets me forget he's attracted to me, but I never let him forget, even now that I'm single, that I have nothing to offer him but friendship. Maybe we're kidding ourselves, or maybe we're being really adult. Just because we don't have a romantic future, doesn't mean there isn't value to being in each other's lives.
On New Year's Eve, as the clock struck midnight 2008 for the very first time, one thing is certain. He wanted to kiss me. If I did kiss him, it would be the most nervous, stiff, guilt-ridden kiss of my life. If I didn't, I would probably always wonder about it.
Things have cooled down significantly between The Chief and I since New Year's Eve. For starters, he doesn't drive me home anymore. As we all know, I have a long-standing walking date with Apple Guy after class. Also, The Chief is finally taking me up on my theater tickets, but he's taking both tickets for himself and actually bringing a date. Yet, as swing class was wiping the floor with me last night, it was nice to know I could count on my Chief to give me a pick me up, make me feel appreciated, offer me a ride, and see me safely to the door.
So, did I kiss The Chief on New Year's Eve?
I'll never tell. But you have to ask yourself... How could I not?
Love,
Sara
A number of factors led to the failure of my swing life last night. Apple Inc. took Apple Guy, along with all of his adorable nerd counterparts and their iPhones, on a ski weekend up north. Talk about a perk! Don’t get me wrong. My happiness doesn’t hinge on this one man’s presence. In fact, I was so stressed out and despondent last night, it’s probably better that he wasn’t around to see it. I think it was just the cherry on top of what has been a really difficult week thus far. I didn’t look good. I didn’t feel good. Bottom line: Last night sucked.
As I struggled through my classes, which require a certain amount of peppiness I was less than willing to deliver, nobody but my friend Peggy noticed my lack of enthusiasm. Nobody, that is, except The Chief.
The Chief and I have a complicated relationship. At times, we are almost like father and daughter, while at others we are more like Humbert Humbert and Lolita, but not nearly so graphic or illegal. It all started when I was just a novice, who was too afraid to risk rejection at the practice sessions after class to stick around for them. I would stay for a little while to talk to Peggy, who would occasionally guilt some ridiculously advanced dancer into dragging me around the floor, and then I would leave with my lust for dance unsatisfied. Until The Chief changed all that.
At first, I couldn’t stand him. As a follow to his dance lead, he seemed bossy and patronizing to me, but the more I learned, the more I realized he was genuinely trying to help me get better. He just wanted to dance. He hated it if a teacher rambled on and on about the theory of a particular step. He would say, “If I wanted to take talking lessons, I would have called my mother!” The Chief was a man of action.
We soon became unofficial swing partners. He was witty, charismatic, and there was no funny business because of our 35-year age difference. I know, I know. Boy was I naive! He started offering me a ride home after practice, and eventually, after checking Peggy’s opinion, I accepted. He's a retired Police Chief, after all. If you can’t trust a 60-year-old man with a badge, who the hell can you trust?
I can remember the exact moment I realized I was wrong about The Chief’s intentions. I was in the passenger seat of his car gabbing away delightedly. I was really proud of our friendship. He was my sweet, ol’ man mentor. The Chief made me feel special and I, in turn, made him feel wise. For a girl who grew up without a father, a relationship like ours was priceless. In appreciation of all his rides home, cutting my commute by more than half, I offered him complimentary theater tickets I have access to. He said he would only take me up on my offer if he could take me out for dinner directly following the play. Thing is, I hadn't planned on going with him! Was he suggesting we go on a date!?
After my initial feeling that he was, perhaps, courting me, I decided I must be reading too much into his proposal. Can't a friend treat another friend to a meal? He knows I'm a starving artist. It was probably just a sweet, friendly, decidedly platonic gesture, right?
Wrong! The next week at swing he asked for my phone number in a way that could leave little doubt he had his romantic sights on moi, which is when I broke the news to him. I was in a relationship. You may be asking yourself why I didn't mention my significant other to him before. Well, that's easy: my significant other was a really amazing girl. Yes, I'm gay. I have never been secretive about it. However, there never seemed to be a good time to tell the retired police chief, who might be- dare I say- conservative, about my bi-sexuality. There was no reason to risk our friendship over something that really didn't concern him. Now, I'm thinking maybe I should have at least dropped a hint!
The week after he made his move, swing was a little tense. The Chief had been pretty shocked when I said I was seeing someone, but when I told him I was with a woman, he couldn't help but grin. News flash: Guys love the thought of girl on girl action. The Chief was just tickled I was with a girl. I, on the other hand, found that night of swing painfully awkward. I didn't know how to act. Do I joke around with him? Do I push him away? Do I let him drive me home!?
As if in a dream, I found myself leaving the practice session early and sitting down to eat with The Chief at a burger joint across the street. I felt like I was floating above my body, watching myself follow The Chief's lead. The logic behind our meal was that friends were allowed to eat together. Before long, we established that friends were "allowed" to talk on the phone, text, email, eat, dance and even spend major holidays together.
Yes, you read that right; I spent New Year's Eve with The Chief.
In order to master the art of swing, you need to relinquish control to your dance partner. You literally need to follow his lead. Maybe I took this theory too far, but, then again, maybe not. The Chief and I are friends. He looks really good for his age, but we all have our limits, ladies. He never lets me forget he's attracted to me, but I never let him forget, even now that I'm single, that I have nothing to offer him but friendship. Maybe we're kidding ourselves, or maybe we're being really adult. Just because we don't have a romantic future, doesn't mean there isn't value to being in each other's lives.
On New Year's Eve, as the clock struck midnight 2008 for the very first time, one thing is certain. He wanted to kiss me. If I did kiss him, it would be the most nervous, stiff, guilt-ridden kiss of my life. If I didn't, I would probably always wonder about it.
Things have cooled down significantly between The Chief and I since New Year's Eve. For starters, he doesn't drive me home anymore. As we all know, I have a long-standing walking date with Apple Guy after class. Also, The Chief is finally taking me up on my theater tickets, but he's taking both tickets for himself and actually bringing a date. Yet, as swing class was wiping the floor with me last night, it was nice to know I could count on my Chief to give me a pick me up, make me feel appreciated, offer me a ride, and see me safely to the door.
So, did I kiss The Chief on New Year's Eve?
I'll never tell. But you have to ask yourself... How could I not?
Love,
Sara
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