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.
6.19.2008
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
4.24.2008
Sara Swing Learns a Lesson
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!
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!
4.10.2008
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
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)