Waltzing Matilda

Remember that key lime pie from Friday?  I forgot to mention one thing.  Eharmony Tom baked it.  And I ate it at a bbq/open house at the studio where he’s taking dance lessons.  I think I went on a date on Friday night. 

Let’s back up.  After Open Ended Questions, Tom and I exchanged a few emails and we set up dinner plans for this past Thursday night.  Okay, set up dinner plans is a bit of a stretch as my good friend TopChef can attest.  She’s the one I emailed late at night with the plea – I need restaurant ideas!  Like I couldn’t Yelp it myself.  Not really.  I was a little panicked. 

I prepared for the big night by, well, not doing much.  Turns out it didn't matter because the Thursday date got postponed.  That worked out well because my parents were in town.  And quite frankly, there’s nothing sadder than a 32 year old going on her first date except for a 32 year old going on her first date with her mom and dad waiting at home.  So, Thursday was scrapped but Eharmony Tom invited me to his dance school for the bbq/open house on Friday night.  He was baking a pie.  Well, hello!  A pie-baking dancer?  Not exactly a cowboy but beggars can’t be choosers. 

On Friday night, I drove to the mess that is known as Northern Virginia to go to the Arthur Murray Dance Studio.  Since my Foursquare has crashed and burned since the latest update, I couldn’t check in so I texted Richmond so someone knew my exact address just in case “open house dance studio with pies” turned out to be an elaborate ruse to kidnap me.  Unfortunately, there was no kidnapping.

I ended up walking in right after Eharmony Tom.  We exchanged pleasantries…is that what you do on a first date?  Again, I’m still debating whether this was even a date.  We talked as he changed into his dancing shoes.  I’m totally not making any fun.  I have fashion sneakers.  And Crocs…which I didn’t wear, just so you know.  Although I did consider it briefly.  As he was lacing up his dancing shoes, I asked the question that probably should’ve been blazingly obvious – um, do I have to dance?  I sure did.  Right after that, I was praying for the kidnappers to show up. 

I’ll skip over all the boring parts which involve me learning to dance a waltz, a rumba, and a single swing.  Do you know how awkward it is to learn to dance with a stranger while you’re learning how to do the date thing?  Oh, and did I mention the “touching!!!” (that’s for TopChef – possibly more excited by the possibility of me touching and kissing something other than my cat more than I was.  Actually, that just sounds creepy.  I swear...I'm not into cat-lovin'.)  We all know how much I love touching, don't we?  The funniest line of the night was from Eharmony Tom – you seem really tense.  He’s not only a pie-baking dancer; he’s a perceptive one at that.

After the dance lessons, there were general dances, student dances, professional dances, and a little pie eating.  There was a little chatting between Eharmony Tom and me as well.  He really was a very nice guy.  And he can count dance steps like nobody’s business.   

Let's waltz to the end of the night.  Remember how lame a high-five at the end of the date sounded?  Well, get ready.  This is how I ended the night - I gave a quick wave, thanked him for his kindness, and said I’d talk to him later.  Huh?!  Yep, I basically have no game whatsoever.  But it wasn’t like I was that into him.

And I guess he wasn’t that into me either.  He Eharmony-emailed me and said he “didn’t feel the connection.”  Then he closed our match.  So.  That ends that. 

But the experience wasn’t a total loss.  I know how to waltz now.  And the key lime pie really wasn’t all that bad.      

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Does this even count as a date?  There was no food purchased, there was no door-holding, there was no kissing.  Does it count?  Can I call this my first date?  And seriously, I really can't wear Crocs on a first date?  

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. 

Confessions of the New Kid on the Block

I got some advice when I transferred from Old Unit to New Unit at work.  Just be yourself and you’ll be fine.  That’s not exactly sage advice for a dorky goofball who likes to have a healthy freak out every few days and enjoys random acts of dancing just for the heck of it.  I’m trying to make a good impression here, not frighten people away! 

The fact of the matter is, I’m still the new kid on the block and I don't exactly want people to think I'm a complete Looney Toon in my first month on the job.  As much of a dorky goofball as I am, I do take work seriously and I'm working hard on getting my responsibilites down.  There’s a lot to learn and it’s very different from what I’m used to.  But I’m learning and I’m adjusting.  So, that's fine.  The bigger adjustment I've had to make is to the culture of the New Unit.  It is so different from Old Unit that some days I feel like I wandered to the wrong side, a side where dorky goofballs don't work.   

The most striking difference between Old Unit and New Unit is the quietness.  Even the hallways are quiet.  Sometimes, when I go to the ladies room, I feel like I’m out of class without a hall pass.  On the other side of the building, where Old Unit is, the hallways bustle with life.  There was always someone on their way to some place, usually a stack to pull or process records.  There was always someone to wave to and say, hey, nice Crocs!  Office suites were the scenes of lively discourse about archival theory (original order is for hacks), lack of supplies (no legal folders again?!), or actual New Kid on the Block Jonathan Knight’s homosexuality (okay, that was just me…I was clueless!)  I don’t know where the discoursing is happening in New Unit.  Do they discourse?  Do they disco?  I don’t know!  No one’s in the hallway to ask!

Another huge difference is that many colleagues in New Unit have children.  In Old Unit, you were the exception if you had kids (I can count the number of parents on one hand).  In New Unit, it seems like you’re the exception if you don’t have kids.  I was kinda half-worried that I’d transfer units and all of a sudden a kid would pop out.  So far, so good…but I’ll let you know in about nine months.  Now, my colleagues aren’t talking about their kids all the time but they do occasionally, and well, it’s hard to relate.  I guess I could share stories about my cat.  Because everyone wants to hear cat stories.  Actually, maybe it’s not that hard to relate.  Yesterday, someone was talking about their kid being cranky if she doesn’t take a nap.  I know EXACTLY how that little girl feels!  I need my naps too.  For the record, I’m not adverse to children, I’m just not comfortable around them - I’m always worried that I’ll drop one.  My aunt dropped me when I was a baby; well, that actually explains a lot.          

A difference that I really like is that New Unit has parties!  In the three weeks that I’ve been there, they’ve had two!  That never happened in my old unit!  At yesterday’s party (for two graduating coworkers), they had Georgetown Cupcakes.  How awesome is that?  And there’s gonna be another party later in the month for people with birthdays in May.  Fun, right?!

While I enjoyed the party yesterday, my feelings of new kid on the blockness made me sad.  Not because I was feeling left out or anything.  No, it was because something was said that made me want to dance.  "Krazy Kabob."  Doesn’t that just make you giggly and happy and dancey?  And it’s alliteration which just makes you need to dance more!  So, there I was, listening to a conversation about Krazy Kabob and all my nerve endings were tingling with the desire to jump up and do a little jig or at least to wave some Sassy Hands.  In Old Unit, if someone like TopChef said that within my earshot, I would’ve, for sure, done a little two-step, maybe a hip thrust, or even a little shimmy swivel if I was feeling daring.  People would’ve looked at me like I was a dorky goofball (or a goofy dork) and it would’ve been okay because well, that’s who I am.

Yesterday, I suppressed the urge to dance because I'm the new kid on the block and I didn't want people to think I was a dorky goofball.  And that's not who I really am.     

I can’t wait for the new kid on the block feeling to go away.  Because I really like to dance like a dorky goofball.