There's a chance I've mentioned this before, but two things I love in life are dancing and country things. When you combine these two into a night of country western two stepping, I'm in hog heaven, whatever that means. Big and Rich or Shania are blaring from the speakers and I'm twirling as fast as my black boots will allow. Mmmm.
This week, I thought I was doing a brave thing. Two of my good friends had canceled on me at the last minute (for valid reasons) so I was driving by myself. In my Don Quixote, adventure seeking sort of way, I started wondering whether any of my other friends would be there. Going dancing by yourself would be a brave thing, right? Or stupid? I wasn't quite sure, but I kept driving and resisted the urge to pull a u-turn and stay home for the night. As is happened, there was a good group of my friends already there when I arrived. So much for that.
We danced and danced and twirled and spun and dipped. I danced with all the friends, plus a few guys I didn't know. It's difficult loving dance so much because sometimes there are guys who would be labeled "creepers" who ask you to dance. There are two problems with this scenario. The first is, I feel rude saying no to a dance. It would take a lot for me to turn down a turn on the dance floor, and I'm just not very good at saying nnnnnnn, at saying nnnnnnnn, at saying that word that is opposite of yes. Second, some of those creepers are incredible dancers. Take man in black for a minute. Total creep, just kind of an over the top flirt, etc. However, MIB is one of the best dancers on the floor. What's a girl to do?! Say yes, fly around the room in ecstasy and promptly wash her hands and utter all manner of ewwwwwww sounds in the privacy of the ladies' room? He didn't ask me to dance, so no trips to the ladies' room for me.
At this particular venue, there are several kinds of people…
1. The ballroom crowd - those who, by the shake of the hips and the point of their toes, are clearly accustomed to the likes of rhumba, waltz and fox trot, not the corn fields and smell of dairies.
2. The fun crowd - those who come to learn and have a good time because they enjoy dancing (the majority).
3. The true grits - those who came straight from the saddle and had a little cornbread and beans in the truck for dinner on the way. I danced with one such individual - cue dramatic western movie music.
I was standing in the southwest corner of the room, doing my best to communicate (HULLLLO, I want to dance). It must have worked because
There I was, not dancing at all,
When a cowboy appeared who was thin and tall.
He asked me to dance, and yes said I,
He led me to the floor and said, My name's Ty.
His hat was as black as a night in Odessa,
Pulled down so low that I had to guess, sir,
What exactly his face looked like .
Dancing with tall, dark cowboys is fine, especially when they smell good, but dancing with the friends is great because you can pause to figure out the lead in to a move or try a new stunt. Adrenaline is one of my nearest and dearest friends, so I don't mind being flipped, tossed and dipped. One of the crew particularly likes doing those things, and asked me if I'd try something. Somehow I went from a cradle hold to imitating Superman flying atop his shoulder, followed by a whirl of whooshing and landing in a dip. I promptly asked him if I could please do that every day for the rest of my life.
Other fun things come through watching the pros (usually Type 1, above), or borrowing swing dancing moves from my college days. That's how I ended up having the centrifugal force joyride of the evening, swinging down around and up, hair sweeping the floor, lungs close to screaming. It's a good place to be.
I was committed to leaving at a reasonable hour. I was. I really was. I was going to go home early, clean my room, get a full night's sleep and wake up fresh to finish packing and catch my flight to Dallas. First it was, OK, one more dance. Then I had the good fortune of telling that to my friend J and explaining that I had a flight the next morning. She asked what time my flight was. 11:35? Ha, she said, you don't need to leave. She was so right. Leave dancing or keep dancing? Is that really a question? I don't know what I was thinking. Sleep is so overrated. Dancing is so underrated. So I stayed. We shut the place down again and I was high as a kite for about 48 hours just from twirling and swirling and flying through the air.
Ahhhhh. Dancing.
Love,
LMS
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