Friday night I got the radius of my tracking anklet widened and met my best friend at a local coffee shop/bookstore. It was in a beautiful historic building. We were there to hear her talented friend play the harp, and it was a wonderful time. I was offered the opportunity to try out the woman's harp, which was a small dream come true for me. She was so generous. I strummed it to my little heart's delight, and even plucked out two songs, which I'm pretty sure sounded almost as good as this.
Then the bff talked me into going swing dancing with her afterwards. It's been years since I've taken dance lessons, and I'm, admittedly, not a very good follower on the dance floor, so I figured I'd go and people watch and listen to the music. But that was not to be.
When we arrived, the very German dance instructor got me out on the floor. I was a bit wary, as you can imagine. Ever since the hostile polka takeover of 2012, I am practicing constant vigilance. But he was very persuasive with all the schnell-ing. I did alright, and laughed at myself a whole bunch. Later, I danced with a tall cowboy, a spry seventy year old and a lumberjack with very stylized mutton chops. (He inspired a whole new post that will be coming soon.)
The dancers were great and the music was fantastic. They even played my favorite Ella Fitzgerald song, When I Get Low I Get High, which apparently you dance the Lindy to.
Dancing that night with the cowboy reminded me of another night out dancing with the bff, many years before. We were underage in this country bar with the bff's mom. She loved line dancing, and was determined to convert us. We were about sixteen or seventeen at the time, so she definitely had her work cut out for her.
As we're sitting at a table, a very large, burly cowboy comes up and insists I dance a waltz with him. The bff's mom, Mrs. S., laughing evilly, shoos me out on the dance floor and abandons me. Now this man had to be about sixty, with the biggest beer gut this side of the mighty Mississip. I fully expected Atlas, striking his classic pose, to be on the cowboy's large belt buckle holding up said gut.
So little city slicker that I was figured this was a bonafide redneck. My very first encounter, though as 'Possum Queen they have since become my people. He had the boots and the hat and the chunk of chew in his cheek.
Our primary exchange went something like this.
him - What's yer name, little girl?
me - Ava. What's yours?
him - Butch
me - *silence for about two seconds* Of course it is.
After stepping all over his feet, he did get a little surly and snapped, "A waltz is only three steps."
By the end I think he just put me on top of his boots and danced me around the floor.
Ahh, good times.
So, ever had any dancing related craziness? Do share! If not, what did you do over the weekend?
From the pit (of despair)
4 hours ago