After conducting an informal, unscientific survey, I conclude that when you tell an American that you were squaredancing they look at you as if you were crazy (or, with sympathy) and say, “OMG! We were forced to squaredance in the 2nd/3rd grade! I hated it! You had to touch boys/girls and they had cooties!”, because all Americans share this trauma, whereas if you tell an Austrian you were squaredancing they say, “coooolll!”, turn to their husband and say, “honey, we have to sign up for that dance class!!” to which he replies, “ok,” somewhat less enthusiastically. This means if you really want someone to hate something, force them to do it in the 3rd grade. I’m writing a letter to my congressman right now urging a program to require 9-year olds to smoke.
I’m also going to write a letter to these guys because Ballroom dancing doesn’t show up on their map. (Thanks, Joeri). It’s no accident that in the comments on my previous post on dancing (Mig the instant expert after one class) both the Lindy Hop and bondage are discussed. Ballroom dancing is the strangest thing I’ve ever done. Maybe I’ve just led a sheltered life, maybe it’s my feral upbringing, but scripted, ceremonial behavior strikes me as intensely weird in any situation.
On the other hand, having clear roles like that is liberating in a way too. And I can fucking lead for once, which I find I enjoy.
Now we just need to decide on a safe word.
We actually had to do it in sixth grade, which was when boys were starting to get interesting again (and girls, too, but let’s just leave that there).
I still hated square dancing. It was so lame and the music bounced off the rafters so much that I couldn’t follow time.
It also means that Austrians are just like…so LAME.
I started to faint once while watching others square dance in gym. I had been injured in self-defense class and was on my way through some square-dancers to get to the school nurse. My hearing cut out and my seeing went into slow-motion. Verrrrry trippy to see people dancing slowly, wildly, to nothing at all.
this post brings out the trauma in all of us. [flashing back...] it was 3rd grade. there was a great deal of frantic partner-changing involved. we danced to a 45″ on a red portable record player. we sweat. we breathed air within very close proximity to strange and icky boys. our parents watched.
i mean, they just sat there and watched. some of them even had smiles on their faces. the sick bastards.
so what’s your safe word, eh?
we haven’t discussed a safe word yet. i was thinking “manatee” because i doubt it would come up in conversation normally, you know? “now you’re mine, you little manatee” you know, i doubt it. but i think just the image of a manatee, on the other hand, would sort of quench the fires of passion so i’m still open for suggestions…
In sixth grade, everything that is not completely amazing is SO LAME. So. Hey.
obviously, this is a cultural difference. Austrians are so weird. round here, “manatee” is a common pet name. in fact, dear husband has been known to arouse my passions by gently whispering, “come fuck me, fat blubbering manatee”. ooh, just the thought gets me all hot.