(Oh yeeeeeaaah, did you see how she got carrots instead of a remote ... FIVE HOURS LATER! Best plotting on my part yet.)

Tonight at swing dance lessons we were short a chicky.

That meant our male dance instructor had to fill in a chicky spot. So, you dance with a chick for a while (usually old smelling like carmel) and then switch. Well, guess what, I've now danced with a man.

We were practicing this particular turn where you go from an open position to a closed position. I kept messing it up ('cause I'm damned evil, not dancetastic). After a couple trys dancing with the dude I pulled it off.

We locked eyes and he said "Yes. Yes!".

For a moment I was full of the glee Peter Pan must feel when he gets his tights on right the first time. "I did it! I did it! He really thinks I'm a good dancer!"

Then I realized I was standing in a community commons center, holding a mid-30's dance instructor who happens to share the same genitalia as me, just smiling away like Jerry found the cure for my disease.

F that. F that situation. I grabbed my chicky, a steak and headed home to build a fire. F that.
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