So there I was...at a square dance...when the Wyoming County version of John Travolta from Urban Cowboy made his appearance and began crossing the floor towards Geri and me. His tall white socks stood like stately sentinels, grounded in worn black sneakers that promised a future of promenading. Loose black basketball shorts would reduce the risk of chaffing during the Reverse Flutterwheel. My heart pounded. Was it possible that he was coming to dance...with me? But no...turns out that all of my middle school insecurities were justified as he bowed deeply in front of Geri and gallantly held out his hand to her. Mortified...she was swept away leaving me alone...the perpetual wallflower.
But fear not, friends. My dance partner did eventually appear as my former kindergarten teacher pulled me out onto the floor. Bear in mind that I was taller than Mrs. Lacey when I was IN kindergarten. So while Geri was being whipped about, twirled and tossed, Mary was forcibly shoving me into position. "Left, Amy," she snapped, "I know I taught you THAT much!" Wow. The 4th grader wearing homespun situated at what we in the square-dancing biz like to call "the corner" was much kinder. "We swing to the right," she instructed gently as we clasped hands, "No...the OTHER right. Picture a clock."John Travolta dumped Geri when the caller chided her for insufficiently Threading the Needle ("You, in the red shirt," the caller spoke into the microphone, "you need to turn to the right...no...the RIGHT." "Picture a clock, Ger!" I yelled helpfully. Homespun tossed me a thumbs-up.). He selected a partner deemed more worthy, our friend Kathy, who was sporting nifty blue cowboy boots. She's a tiny little thing so he was able to really fling her around the floor. Cowboy boots have shockingly small amounts of tread. Geri was thrilled to be assigned to a new partner, our friend Pat, who promenaded at a much more reasonable pace and didn't judge Ger's directional dyslexia.
Geri and I used the band's break as our excuse to boot-scoot-and-boogie our way out of there. "We have a birthday party to attend," we explained to Kathy who checked her watch doubtfully and frowned, her blue cowboy boots tapping the floor. "At 9 pm?" she asked. But it was true. Little did we know, though, that we were leaping out of the frying pan and into the fire.
"Are you sure this is the way?" I asked again as I squinted through the windshield as the car made its way through rain and darkness, curvy back-roads and rounded hills. Finally we found it, in the middle of a field. We may as well have been in another country. Or time. A tall man in unicorn footie pajamas ran past us. Mystical fairies with garland wreathes crowning their hair guided us to the birthday girl who was clutching pages of schematics and warned us about broaching her perimeter. Another man that looked like he was straddling the shoulders of a warped stuffed bear situated between his legs led us to safety. Thank goodness Geri and I blended in...two middle-aged women wearing square-dancing clothes in a forest clearing at midnight. To my credit, I was clutching an umbrella, as well.
I was soon high on second-hand smoke and vowing to never use the f~word again as it apparently is no longer special. Sammy Hagar, barefoot and bare-chested, danced among the trees, whipping revelers with his feather boa. I eyed him suspiciously as he drew nearer. My middle school heart began to beat rapidly. Was he coming to talk to me? He brushed by a girl with wings to get to us. Before I knew it, he was shaking back his long blonde tresses dramatically and holding out a gallant hand to...Geri. Holding my elbows at a careful 45 degree angle, I sway/slid my way back to the car. It was time to go home.
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