Thursday, September 1, 2005
Would you think me crass if I suggested that truth comes easily once you have what you want? I’ll explain this by way of story, specifically an anecdote I recalled today out of the blue. It’s the strangest thing. You find yourself on the sidewalk, ambulating under the noisy trees, mind completely fixed on the swaggering clouds and the agreeable weather, and something–a breeze, a panhandler, an errant frisbee to the base of the skull–will trigger a memory.
It was freshman year, right around the beginning of fall quarter, and under a temperate evening I was trying my best to be sociable. How hard could that be at Swing Night, a brilliant bit of programming wherein new students were crammed into an increasingly hot room to flail their limbs at each other? What could possibly go wrong? Certainly I could dance with myself and avoid the tragedy, but ideally I would find a partner. I scanned the room and found a rather hot girl.
“Hey, would you like to dance?” I asked, looking as disinterested as possible.
“Sure,” she replied.
Yes. This is going to be a great year.
We got the small talk out of the way. Hometown, dorm, major this, major that, as if anyone in the room really had a goddamn clue at that point. The music started along with a crash course in the basic steps, which I promptly ignored.
“Please,” I thought, “I already know this.”
This lick of hubris cost me somewhat, because it turned out my one lesson in high school didn’t prepare me well enough for, you know, collegiate swing dancing.
“Wow, you’re good,” I remarked, in a crafty attempt to distract her while I faked it.
In truth she was good–really good, in fact–and after a song or two I was able to keep up with a little effort. Then again, it may have been the thing that women graciously do sometimes, where even the biggest dorks are made to feel smooth. I’d like to think it was a bit of both. I’m also sure I didn’t step on her feet, so I guess that’s another kind of verification.
“Haha, this is pretty fun,” she said breathlessly during a break.
“Yeah, definitely,” I agreed wholeheartedly.
I asked for her number. She wrote it on a snip of paper. Wow.
Wooooo! Suave. I’m like 64 ounces of it.
But then the advanced portion of Swing Night began.
“We’re going to try some lifts,” declared one of the swing club members. “Now–“
He proceeded to outline a strange ritual in which the guys would propel the girls in thrilling acrobatic formations. I don’t remember the exact details, but there would be great harm done, mainly to the women, should we lose our hold. There were additionally, said the swinger, many opportunities for frantic ass-grabbing.
I turned to my partner. I looked in her eyes. She looked in mine.
“Whoa, I’m so going to drop you,” I muttered.
DANGER, DANGER, MOSES ALMIGHTY YOU ARE IMPLYING SHE IS FAT. Bring it back to yourself. Self-deprecation. She is hot, and also very not fat.
“Man, I just don’t have the upper-body strength for this,” I continued.
HOLY SHIT YOU’VE DONE IT NOW. YOU JUST CALLED HER A HIPPOPOTAMUS. IN A FUCKING SIZZLER.
I bet you’d like to hear how she made sure I had two left feet by ripping off my right foot, gluing the left foot of the swinger to my stump, and beating me with my own appendage. It actually worked out amicably in the end because she wasn’t insulted. Imagine that. Do you see my point now? I got the digits, and then the other shoe dropped. Likewise I’ve got your attention, so here it goes. I’m spent. I’m tired of all this typing. I don’t believe I’ll see you tomorrow. Maybe Tuesday?