This past Saturday I took a swing dancing class through USC’s “Getting Your Hands Dirty With the Arts” event. As I expected there were a lot more females in the class. 5:1 ratio... and that's including the male teacher. We stood in a giant circle and learned the steps, then every couple of minutes the males would move over to the next lady. Now, most of these guys were not... particularly... gorgeous. They were the kinds of guys looking for a girl friend and probably thought a swing class was the perfect opportunity to have girls vying for their attentions. Smart men... their plans worked.
After each terribly long dry spell, the teacher would yell “SWITCH” and I would literally jump into the geek’s arms. It was sad and ridiculous and I truly wish I had captured my face possessed with rapture on camera. We would dance (albeit awkwardly) and I would pout until the next one would come along ten minutes later. This pathetic cycle made me so aware of the basic human longing to have someone to stand by you-- to have a partner.
During the droughts between left-footed strangers, I would dance with my imaginary man. As I was placing my hand on his invisible shoulder and let him gently take my hand in his, I thought about how many times I had brushed away the tug to have dance partner. I have nonchalantly flicked away love notes and boys with hopeful dovey eyes since I was in the second grade. No joke. By sixth grade, a guy had gone so far as to tell me he was ‘ready to hang from and tree or put a gun to his head’ if I kept refusing to accept his love. He gave me a crystal carousal music box (which sits on my bookshelf at home to this day) and I filed a report with the principal. Point is... I think I’ve trained myself to daydream about a James McAvoy made just for me, but run a bagillion miles away every time a real boy turns his attentions my way. Some reason or another will always cause my shoulders to instinctively tense up as his gaze falls on the back of my tresses.
In college! I always thought-- in college, the boys will be more mature, they’ll woo me, i’ll like them, i’ll have a boyfriend then, it’ll be perfect. The more time I spend here at USC, the more I realize that’s not true. Boys still have cooties... they’re still immature... they still treat girls like cheap steaks behind Walmart's meat counter... the majority of them still make me cringe as they awkwardly attempt to flirt.
Nevertheless, a lovely thought hit me over the head as my imaginary man swung me under his left arm toward the end of the Frank Sinatra song. When the right guy shows up, when this guy in my mind decides to vaporize into flesh and blood in front of me, I’ll know it’s him. He’ll know just how to push my buttons, he’ll know how to surprise me and how much I love fresh flowers and chocolate and holding hands and not wearing shoes. He’ll know when to call, when to come over unannounced, when to shut up, and when to scream at me to stop being a bitch. He’ll be made to fit and he’ll come for me one of these days. So why am I so worried about trying to catch every hunk of man candy that walks past me as I play my guitar on the quad? Those aren’t him, I don’t need to waste my time with them or throw myself at anyone-- because the mr. right (okay mr. right-boyfriend) will come on his own without all my brow creasing and longing looks at the shirtless frisbee players.
Until then... it’s one two three... one two three... one two three... turn two three... and think about all the shit I’ll give him for making me wait around for him so long... and he dips me backward over his arm two three...
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