This next story follows closely on the heels of our last story. That Wednesday I decide to go out dancing. Nothing like a little country swing to liven things up. It’s quick, upbeat, and has a rhythm even white people can keep up with.
Now, I hear some of you saying: “Lance, you had a full-blown fever on Monday, why would you go out dancing just two nights later?”
Actually, this isn’t all that uncommon. I bounce back from most things surprisingly fast. If I healed any quicker, they’d have to fit me for sideburns and adamantium claws.
Fine! And abs. Anyway, the point is that by Wednesday night I was fully back on my feet and ready to swing some women off of theirs.
The night actually goes pretty darn well. I work my way around the room, asking a different girl to dance each time, plucking wallflowers out onto the dancefloor like a jean-clad florist. I sit out the line dances to catch my breath and cool off. Besides, let’s be honest, a big guy like me has a 40% higher chance of looking ridiculous line dancing, and those odds weren’t good to begin with.
So the time comes when I’m not seeing many new faces left on the dance floor and I’m starting to feel a bit tired. So I decide to ask one particular girl to dance with me a second time for my last dance. She happily obliges as we danced very well together the first time.
We get out there and I start spinning her around and we are hitting every move in perfect sync like the pistons on a Formula One car. At one point, she does apologize for her hair, which is a little unruly at this point in the evening.
“Don’t worry about it!” I assure her. “It’s absolutely fine!”
That’s called foreshadowing, children.
We’re about two-thirds of the way through the song and we are well past the basic stuff. She is in the air as often as not and we haven’t missed a single beat for all the acrobatics. Then I spin her around, deftly maneuvering my leg around behind her. It looks off balance for only a fraction of a second before I lower her into an enthusiastic yet graceful dip.
Due to the counterbalance of the leg, I am able to lift my left arm into the classic Man From Snowy River pose. Don’t worry if you have no idea what I’m talking about, you only need to understand that it looks triumphant. It’s a pose that says: “BAM! Ya’ll seein’ this?”
And then I whip the girl back up into the next spin…
Or at least that’s what I try to do. Problem is, when her body starts to come back up, her head remains, whipping backwards in some kind of bizarre horizontal clothesline. You see, I had stepped on her hair while she was at the lowest point of the dip.
Now, I would have told you that such a thing was completely impossible. After all, my foot had to be planted before she even started the dip. Fortunately for the reader and unfortunately for the girl, the laws of physics can’t be bothered when it comes to making hilarious caricatures out of my dating life.
So it was, with the kind of dark magic level bad luck that only members of my direct bloodline can summon, this poor girl ended up playing the part of the rope in a tug-o-war between my feet and my arms.
It did not end well for me, the girl, her hair, or anyone unfortunate enough to be watching. Kind of like that falling scene with the girl towards the end of The Amazing Spiderman 2. Thunk. Hard to watch. You just can’t un-see that.
After helping the girl to the side, out of the way of the maelstrom of dancers, she assured me she was just fine. Her credibility in this claim was a little hampered by the fact that she claimed it while finger-combing copious amounts of blond hair onto the floor.
Naturally, I expressed my apologies profusely, but she assured me they were unnecessary and that she would even consider dancing with me again. She seemed like a bright enough girl, so I can’t quite believe that she meant that last part. More likely, it was her polite way of saying she wasn’t going to press charges.
That’s all for now, folks. That brings us up to the present, but we’ll see what the weekend holds… ;)