Dancin' the Night Away

Warning: Yes, I'm going to talk about dancing in this blog. And no, it's not as lame as you might think. Please continue.

We discovered contra dancing at our friends' wedding in June. Basically contra dancing involves Celtic music, usually a violin, and you dance in these lines that form patterns. You usually get a new partner about every 30 seconds. You don't have to wear a costume or know any fancy steps, because there's a caller that tells you what to do.

Now, don't get the wrong idea. Contra dancing is NOT square dancing. And it's most certainly NOT country line dancing. Can you picture me doing the Achy Breaky Heart dance? Ugh.

Contra dancing also does not involve giving any money or weapons to Oliver North or Iran or whatever. I swear.

It's fun enough for Mike to go. Of his own volition.

So we went to P@lisade for a contra dance on Saturday and had a blast. We went with some other younger people and managed to hold our own against the old geezer experts. I have discovered a potentially fatal flaw to contra dancing, however.

Some contra-dancing men are really tall. Like, freakishly tall. And very serious about the dance. And very sweaty. The problem arises when these things combine and I get passed on to a tall, serious guy contra dancer and he's all sweaty.

He pulls me in close, and my nose happens to come right up to the perfect height of... his ARMPIT! Ack! So I'm turning my head as we're spinning around and holding my breath... thinking, "God, let this end and please let the next partner be Mike," and I start to get really dizzy with the room spinning (perhaps from anaerobic effects on my brain) but I keep holding my breath because any breath of oxygen would be infused with my dance partner's man-stink ... until I'm tossed to the next person. A wild-eyed little man (thank god) with nappy sideburns and suspenders.

Another possible hazard of contra dancing in a smallish town: You end up dancing with a creepy guy who you met seven years ago. Who called you and asked you on a date when he stole your phone number off an invoice from the business at which he works. Who you told to never call again. And now is holding both your hands, looking at you and asking, "Don't I know you?"

And you look across the room to your husband, who is doubled over, laughing hysterically. Because remember, you are the Kevin B@con of GJ.

Ah well.