Today was not a good day.
I rolled out of bed late and already cranky, since taking melatonin apparently succeeded in making me have vivid not-so-nice dreams and sleep fitfully throughout the night
Not long after arising, I had a phone conversation with a friend of mine — who, bless her heart — meant well but was disarmingly blunt. After inquiring about the possibility of working at her company, she told me that they get 800-1000 resumes PER DAY and that I’d have no chance in hell of even being seriously considered for a position there. I applied anyway, dammit.
Apparently out of masochism, I looked at my bank balance online. Well, at least it wasn’t negative. Close, but not quite. But let’s just say I better get a job soon. Or learn how to rob banks. Or marry rich. Or to be on the financially safe side, perhaps all of the above.
When it was time for me to attend the “9:20 Special” lindy hop dance I usually frequent on Thursday nights, I was none too eager to go. From past experience, when I’m already having a particularly bad day, I tend to sadly carry this with me into dancing… acting shy and basically sulking in a corner.
Unsurprisingly, my evening at the 9:20 began just like that. I went in, faking a smile, and sat in the corner, preparing to have a lousy time.
I failed. Despite getting stuck briefly with the follow from hell during a snowball, I ended up having a darn good time against my will. Within moments of sitting down, I already had one fine follow ask me to dance. Shortly after that, another one. One particularly stunning follow that I hadn’t seen before thanked me for the dance and smiled “That was wonderful!” Another hugged me after I proudly pulled off a decently challenging up-tempo dance and gushed, “That was awesome! I love your style!”
I was reminded that — at least on my on nights — I may not be publicly loved, but I’m at least well-liked. And while I was a bit jealous watching throngs of women fighting over the chance to dance with one of the birthday boys (my jam suffered from, ahem, some rather dry spells in contrast), I was and still am grateful that I can still make quite a few women smile in an evening.
After calling it quits around midnight, I ended up walking a particularly talented and attractive woman (“Lucida”) to her car and we ended up having the following exchange that, among other things, reminded me of just how much I miss college.
LUCIDA: I’m not going to meet guys anywhere else [other than at Lindy Hop events], I mean, what else do I do? I’m not a bar girl.
ME: Really? I mean, in contrast, you know I’m a total bar stud. Major bar player material.
LUCIDA, almost tripping over herself in laughter: Uh, yeah Adam, riiiiiight! But seriously, I haven’t been single in five years. FIVE YEARS! And these guys that ask me… I never know if they like me, or they just want to get into my pants.
[It was incredibly tempting to run with this, but I thankfully resisted saying something crude and stupid.]
ME: Okay, I know what your problem is. You’ve got to quit being a lazy ass… time for YOU to start doing the asking.
LUCIDA: I do! But none of the guys I like… like me back. It’s really hard, you know? Well, I liked this one guy, but he was a jerk. Jerk!
[Once again, the cynical me was sorely tempted to pantomime some violins. The girl’s not been single in 5 years, and she’s whining about a comparatively short dry spell? Gimme a break.]
ME: I know what you mean. Sometimes you really like someone in the lindy scene… you know, a crush or whatever… and then you get to know them, and you go, damn, what was I THINKING?!
Lucida paused for a moment that — to me, at least — felt like an eternity.
There was, indeed, a delicious irony of my statement… since I, like every other guy *I* know of, had a crush on her until realizing that it was a hopeless cause.
But she didn’t catch this, right?
If she had, though, I bet she was amused in an Alanis Morrisette kind of way.
And now we were at her car.
“Thanks,” she said, non-commitally.
I wonder if she’s as self-aware as I am whenever I’m dancing with her or sometimes even talking to her. She’s not my type. I’m not her type. We don’t even dance well together. I don’t even have fantasies about her, because I think I’d internally chuckle at the incongruity of the idea before getting too excited.
But that doesn’t matter. I still say stupid things to her (yes, much stupider than apparent from the exchange above)… like a tongue-tied school boy. The antithesis of Mr. Suave… Mr. D’oh!
Maybe that’s even worse than being Mr. Cellophane. Hmm.