Dancing Queen

“Relax and just follow me,” he instructed as the music blared around us. 
Me in my crazy little brain, Oh boy, oh boy, oh boy.  I'm going to kill them.  Isn't this how babies get made?!  
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So, a couple of interesting things happened to me at BlogHer. 

The first happened on Friday morning at the Newbie Breakfast.  Out of over 3,600 bloggers, I met someone who graduated from my high school two years before me.  She told me that she saw me at the 5K and she thought that I looked familiar.  I don’t like when I look familiar.  Brown hair, brown eyed girls are a dime a dozen.  I want to look just like them.  Boring brown hair, brown eyed girls who kinda fade into the background and who don’t look different from all the other brown hair, brown eyed girls in the world.   And who sure as hell doesn’t look familiar to you.  But you know what?  I decided to change my overly sensitive reaction.  Yep, I’m familiar alright.  I’m not just your average run-of-the mill brown hair, brown eyed girl…I can’t fade into the background; heck, I don't want to fade into the background anymore.  Yeah, I stick out a little from all the rest.  But, do you know what that means?  I’m memorable, damn it!    

So, this encounter with my fellow brown hair, brown eyed high school alumna (who I confess wasn’t familiar to me at all) brought memories of high school flooding back. 

Ahh, high school.  High school was where I perfected the “everything is great!” façade.  I was happy, smiley Denise.  The nice girl with the disturbing number of over-sized tee-shirts.  That style choice sure took a long time to grow out of! (Anyone?  Anyone at all?  Okay, no more jokes for you!) 

I was always happy, smiley Denise.  Happy, smiley Denise who didn’t dare look at herself in the mirror in the girls’ bathroom because, well, her face wasn’t worth primping or preening over.  Happy, smiley Denise who knew what hallways to avoid so she didn't have to hear the mean taunts and rude comments.  Happy, smiley Denise who loved to dance but who didn’t get asked to dances because girls like her didn’t get asked.  Happy, smiley Denise who didn’t feel worthy of being asked to the dance. 

That’s not to say that happy, smiley Denise didn’t go to dances.  Oh no.  My friends and I hit them all up, except for Prom, but we had other plans.  When we went to the dances, we danced together as a group.  There was never any boy asks girl, boy puts hands on girl's hips, twirl, twirl, dip, dip, kinda dancing.  At least, for me.  But that was okay, really.  Besides, that kind of dancing is how babies get made.      

I liked to dance.  I still like to dance.  Nowadays, my dancing takes place in my car (I’m a great driver’s seat dancer), my cubicle, my kitchen, Aisle 3 in the Safeway.  Usually, by myself.  Actually, that could explain the curious glances I get in Aisle 3.  Awkward.  I dance because it’s fun and I like it and if there’s music playing, I like to get my groove on.  I’m totally cool with getting that groove on without a partner.  Although, every once in a while, I think it would be nice to dance with someone.  Well, as long as no babies get made. 

On Saturday night, my pals and I went to the Latina Social Fiesta party.  They hired smokin’ hot, sexy as hell, professional male salsa dancers to entertain the crowd.  I was content to stand to the side, shaking my booty, swaying from side to side as I munched on an empanada and a quasi fish taco and watch as the smoking hot, sexy as hell, professional male salsa dancers pulled women from the crowd to dance because, you see, girls like me may go to the dance but we don’t get asked to dance.  

As one of the smokin’ hot, sexy as hell, professional male salsa dancers approached us, my naughty friends strongly encouraged him to lead me to the dance floor.  So there I was being pushed and pulled (for future reference, it’s physically impossible to dig your feet into a concrete floor) into the center of the dance floor. 

“Relax and just follow me,” he instructed as the music blared around us. 
Me in my crazy little brain, Oh boy, oh boy, oh boy.  I'm going to kill them.  Isn't this how babies get made?!  Oh my gosh.  A real live boy is dancing with me.  Me!!

Under the stars in San Diego, I danced with a smokin hot, sexy as hell guy who put his hands on my hips and twirled me around and dipped me and led me in the salsa.  It was absolutely magnificent.  And no babies got made!   

Happy, smiley high school Denise?  She was totally worthy of being asked to the dance.  She just didn’t know it. 

Happy, smiley, salsa dancing Denise?  I'm totally worthy of being asked to the dance.  I know it.  And I believe it.    

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As far as I’m concerned Goal 6 has been accomplished.  It wasn’t the right song and my partner wasn't wearing cowboy boots but I danced the salsa under the stars in San Diego with a real live boy!  That deserves a spot on the Goal Board.