A Girl Walks into a Bar...

A girl walks into a bar.

That's where the joke ends and you start laughing because I'm the girl and the bar is a bar where people who are not old yet but are getting there go to get drinks. If you don't know me, you may laugh with incredulity. If you do know me, you may laugh with a knowing twinkle, if you're a type that twinkles when you laugh.

I love to dance. Dance may, in fact, be my most favorite verb, though it may be tied with worship (that's for another blog post). This fact added to the fact that I've watched two dancing movies in the last week resulted in a severe case of dancing fever. [love for dance + dancing movies = Sunshine's dancing fever] A few weeks ago I had gone to a swing dance class and they mentioned that they go over to a particular bar and dance some nights. I kept this in mind.

I googled it, just to check, and sure enough, there it was on the world wide web - as reliable a source of information as your grandma's gossiping neighbor.

The idea was slowly transformed from "this happens on this night" to "I'm doing this, so help me". First, there was the question of a wingman. There was none readily at hand, though I advertised on Facebook, so that matter was quickly settled. SG would be good company, but she feels as giddy about dancing as cats do about baths. I would fly this mission solo.

Then of course, was, what to wear. In solo operations like this that involve dancing with unknown persons, one must walk carefully the line between "why would I dance with a nun" and "why dance with her when I can hit on her". I settled on the one shoulder leopard dress, but put my black teacher cardigan over the top as a precaution until I checked out the situation. A pair of black shoes from SG, and my fishing lure-ish gold earrings and I was set. Upon asking SG if I had enough makeup on, I was asked if I was serious and that I had three times as much as usual.

I tucked my pocket knife into the cuff of my black leggings, along with a $5 bill. In my bag I put another $5, phone and library card - just in case I got knocked out and they needed ID. Host dad Ian gave me a ride and told me to call him when I was done.

I marched myself in those doors, determined to do some dancing. Inside I found a few tables, a jazz band, and a bar with about ten people standing around, mostly over 30. No one was dancing. I got myself a lemon lime and bitters, an Aussie classic that's close to ginger ale and tried to lean against the bar with as much nonchalance as I could muster. The guy standing next to me at the bar looked at me, so I moved to the other side, which was closer to the band. I tried to sip slowly, knowing once that drink was gone, I would have nothing to stand around looking nonchalant with.

For a few minutes, I just watched the band. Sometimes I closed my eyes - partly to enjoy the music, partly so I didn't have to think about being in a bar by myself with no dancing in sight.  I even considered dancing by myself, but I had expended enough bravery for one night.  It was just me and the jazz band until Scott stepped into the multi-colored light. He had a few features that could be classified under the "classic creeper" file like the mustache and the slicked hair, but he was a ginger in jeans and skater shoes who could dance, so that made him a little less creepy.

Not one to let other people have all the fun, I walked over to the lady he'd just finished dancing with and did one of my best dumb gush acts ever.

Me: Oh wow, where'd you learn to dance like that?! You guys are really good!

Lady: Oh, you know, just here and there. Do you dance?

Me: I've done a little swing dancing here and there.

Lady: Well, just ask Scott to dance.

Me: Uhhh…

Lady: Scott, come here, what's your name, doll?

Me: Casie

Lady: Scott, this is Casie, and she's done some swing dancing.

Bam. I was dancing. After a couple dances with Scott, who was pretty good, I took a break and talked with one of the band's singers, who invited SG and I up to her house with a promise that she and her husband would show us the Great Ocean Road. Aussies are so friendly.

Next, I danced with Shane, who was probably fifty. He was the dance teacher, and had danced ballet professionally for a few years. Needless to say, he was good.  He kind of looked like this, but with glasses...

Third guy, oh, the third. Well, he tried to be the charm, it just wasn't his gift. He looked a little like the villain from Spy Kids. 

 But hey, I'll dance with anyone. His footwork was less than desirable, but he bypassed my toes, so that's ok. After the two dances I said yes to, he wanted to chat and buy me a drink. I said no. I don't know if that's rude, but I didn't want an actual drink, and I didn't want to be indebted to talk to him for much longer, especially after he asked if I was seeing anyone. (OH DEAR HEAVENS, WHERE'S MY WINGMAN!?)

Last, but certainly not least after Mr. Third, was Alan. Least creepy and youngest, he had some things going for him, including some dancing skills, which included the freeze. Now and then the band would pause, as they do in swing jazz occasionally. Usually you just keep dancing and pick up the beat when the band comes back in. Not Alan, he would actually freeze. Everybody has their quirks.

Sometimes people try to talk to you while live bands are playing. This is not advisable unless you need to say "THERE'S A FIRE" or "I THINK I'M HAVING A HEART ATTACK" or something really important. In order to be heard, you have to lean in so that you can funnel the soundwaves into the other person's ear, which puts you in closer than usual proximity for stranger conversations. Even then, the conversations usually go something like this, especially if there are accents involved…

Aussie: So, where are you from?

Sunshine: No, this is my first time here.

Aussie: Oh. OK. What state is that in?

Sunshine: Oh… yeah. *nod confusedly*

Aussie: *let's try this again* Have you danced much?

Sunshine: Ya, some swing dancing.

Aussie: Cool, cool. Yeah. So you're from Canada?

At this point, you hope they just ask you to dance or walk away.

Much love,

Little Miss Sunshine