I wanna dance with somebody!

Feet... pain... hurt. Ouchie. Yesterday, my partner and I danced for eight straight hours.

I've been slowly realizing over the past year that I've been dancing with my partner that ballroom really is a sport. We say it is, but no one takes us seriously. Nights like this, however, really bring the idea home.
Ballroom is not a sprint; it's a fucking marathon. Eight hours of dance, and I came home with my lungs in my shoes. Dirt tired (however tired dirt is; no idea what that expression means).

Not only that, but it's also a contact sport. These bitches and their partners would sooner fist-fight you on the dance floor than let you get into their space. They push and shove, and someone invariably gets hit in the face with a "stray" hand.


They were playing excellent music last night, so my partner and I really got into the dance. Quicksteps were quick (too quick), and tangos were sexy. I don't know what "sexy" is with a woman, but if it's at all the same as with a penis man, then we were probably okay.


Saw Providence boy there too... it was delightfully awkward for pretty much the whole evening. I never wrote about why, but let's just say that an okay date turned into a fairly needy, long-distance post-date.

Maybe someday I'll recap it for you. Until then, however, I'm still imagining nothing ever happened there.