One evening not so long ago when the wine seemed to magically refill in my glass, I may have confessed something to my gentleman caller/man-friend/boyfriend.
OK, before I continue on with the rest of this blog, I really need to figure out what the heck to call him. I seriously have no idea what to call him. What do you call someone you're dating when you are past your teenage years?
If I call him my gentleman caller, I sound like a prostitute at the Bunny Ranch.
If I call him my boyfriend, I'm pretty sure I'm gonna have to register every time I move.
If I call him my man-friend, I feel like I should be changing his diapers and waiting for him to die so I can collect the coins on the floor of his car - he's a very funny local comedian who loves to do free charity shows, so I'm assuming I'd be lucky if my inheritance would pay for a Slurpee - it's a good thing I LOVE Slurpees.
The only title I want to give him is Dude-I-want-to-get-lost-on-a-road-trip-with.
Back to my drunk confession: I had too much wine and quickly went from silly to sad. I admitted this: I miss dancing. I really, truly miss dancing.
During my saddest divorce moments, I focused on the future, the new post-divorce me. She would be brave. She would take risks. She would dance - a lot!
I never intended to stop dancing, but I allowed myself to be shamed into it. When the person who is supposed to love and support you the most asks you to never dance in public, especially when his friends and co-workers are around, you stop dancing. I stopped dancing. Well, that happened. Instead of fighting, I agreed to stop.
It's not like I was a classically-trained ballerina or a burlesque dancer or anything awesome. I was a horrible dancer, quite possibly the worst dancer ever. I tripped, kicked, ran into inanimate objects, bumped into and sometimes maimed other people. I'm a girl with zero rhythm, zero coordination.
Yet, I accepted those things about me and I danced anyway. I loved it! I loved how ridiculous I knew I looked. I loved the reactions of my fellow dancers: most amused, some confused and a few angry by my blatant lack of conformity. I loved to dance.
So, I confessed all of this to the Dude-I-want-to-get-lost-on-a-road-trip with. I never imagined he would actually hear me and remember what I said. Damn Dude decided that for Valentine's Day, he would buy a HowAboutWe.com membership and surprise me with our first "adventure" - DANCE CLASS! Yup, he not only heard me, but he decided to take action.
Tonight at 7:00, we will have our first HowAboutWe.com suggested Chicago dating experience - I prefer to call it a challenge. Why a challenge?
It'll be a challenge
- for me to muster the courage to actually dance with other people in the room and with a partner
- for him to survive my flailing arms, uncoordinated gyrations, high kicks and high heels
- for our new relationship: we'll have to work together and problem solve
- for all those unfortunate living people and non-living objects in the room with me.
This is where we need your help, dear reader! Our dance lesson is a private 60 minute lesson, and we can't seem to agree on what dance we want to learn!
He wants to learn the Dirty Dancing Log Dance Scene:
Whereas I'm in a Country Square Dancing mood, and I bought us perfectly coordinating square dancing outfits:
As we can't seem to agree, I shall leave it up to my dear readers! Please, oh, please leave some suggestions for us in the comment section below.
In return, I promise to try to the best of my ability to take pics and videos of tonight's ridiculousness to share with you next week . . . if I survive and he survives and as long as we are not in jail awaiting our court date nor on the run from the feds. Yes, if none of those catastrophes happen, I promise to share all next week.
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