it's a small, small, world
Tonight I went lindy hopping at The Jam Cellar, which, despite its name, is neither underground nor a vendor of delicious jams and jellies. Actually the dancing occurs on the second floor of an 18th century mansion in the Columbia Heights district of Washington, D.C. One could not have asked for better ambience.
While there, I lay eyes upon a familiar face. Lo, there danced the venerable Trey, whom none of you likely know, but who is responsible for teaching me lindy hop in the first place. Three years ago at William and Mary he taught the swing/lindy class when the Swing Club was in its nascent days. At that time it still met in Monroe Attic (home of my heart). Yes, I am proud to say I witnessed the inception of this club, which now boasts a gazillion members.
Needless to say, he did not remember me, which is fine. At that time I had no clue what I was doing, and it was not until long after his departure that any of his imparted knowledge sunk in (at least, I like to think it sunk in). We chatted for a few moments, and I succeeded in not being overly juvenile in reference to the good-ol' W&M days.
My only caveat with our conversation was that when making his exit, he said, "Okay, I'm going to go dance now," and walked off. Dance etiquette dictates (as far as intuition guides me) that he ask me to dance. I mean, I was standing right in front of him, and we had just spent five minutes attempting to evaporate some of the sweat off our bodies via strategic positioning in front of the fan. I gave no indication that I was not interested in dancing, and hell, I followed him to the edge of the dance floor in the next room. He took another girl up in arms while I stood there.
The following reasons could explain this behavior:
1) My understanding of dance etiquette is flawed.
2) He wasn't thinking straight and goofed.
3) He's a stuck-up boob who only wants to dance with his friends (this is a definite phenomenon --- you can tell who the regulars are because they all dance with one another minus the awkward pre-dance dance).
4) He's a stuck-up boob who only wants to dance with the uber-talented (I may not be god's gift to dance, but I'm decent, I'd say. And even if I weren't, that doesn't excuse him because you are supposed to dance with everyone, not just the talented).
5) I'm blowing things out of proportion. When I first met he intimidated me like nobody's business, so maybe I'm letting that affect my judgment.
6) Some other reason/non-reason I haven't thought of.
But lest this analysis cause you to think I had a night rife with social slights and awkwardness (well, some awkwardness), fear not! I had quite a bit of fun; the price was right; and the fans felt good as they blew on the rivers of sweat coasting down my body. Mmm...sweaty....
While there, I lay eyes upon a familiar face. Lo, there danced the venerable Trey, whom none of you likely know, but who is responsible for teaching me lindy hop in the first place. Three years ago at William and Mary he taught the swing/lindy class when the Swing Club was in its nascent days. At that time it still met in Monroe Attic (home of my heart). Yes, I am proud to say I witnessed the inception of this club, which now boasts a gazillion members.
Needless to say, he did not remember me, which is fine. At that time I had no clue what I was doing, and it was not until long after his departure that any of his imparted knowledge sunk in (at least, I like to think it sunk in). We chatted for a few moments, and I succeeded in not being overly juvenile in reference to the good-ol' W&M days.
My only caveat with our conversation was that when making his exit, he said, "Okay, I'm going to go dance now," and walked off. Dance etiquette dictates (as far as intuition guides me) that he ask me to dance. I mean, I was standing right in front of him, and we had just spent five minutes attempting to evaporate some of the sweat off our bodies via strategic positioning in front of the fan. I gave no indication that I was not interested in dancing, and hell, I followed him to the edge of the dance floor in the next room. He took another girl up in arms while I stood there.
The following reasons could explain this behavior:
1) My understanding of dance etiquette is flawed.
2) He wasn't thinking straight and goofed.
3) He's a stuck-up boob who only wants to dance with his friends (this is a definite phenomenon --- you can tell who the regulars are because they all dance with one another minus the awkward pre-dance dance).
4) He's a stuck-up boob who only wants to dance with the uber-talented (I may not be god's gift to dance, but I'm decent, I'd say. And even if I weren't, that doesn't excuse him because you are supposed to dance with everyone, not just the talented).
5) I'm blowing things out of proportion. When I first met he intimidated me like nobody's business, so maybe I'm letting that affect my judgment.
6) Some other reason/non-reason I haven't thought of.
But lest this analysis cause you to think I had a night rife with social slights and awkwardness (well, some awkwardness), fear not! I had quite a bit of fun; the price was right; and the fans felt good as they blew on the rivers of sweat coasting down my body. Mmm...sweaty....