Serial Slow Dancer

You’d hardly recognize me if you knew me in fourth grade. I was awkward, didn’t know how to dress (umm helllo hand-me-down jorts from broseph), was entirely too nice for my own good, had those super-stylish straight across bangs, and thought I was really good at singing.

Kidding, that’s exactly who I am now, except that I know I can’t sing but I do it anyways, especially while shopping. (Mom: “Morgan, stop it – you’re embarrassing yourself.” Me: “Nope, I believe I am embarrassing yeeeewwww.”)

But let’s go back to fourth grade. Some background info: I’d just gotten my cat, Callie (and after the first night begged my mom to just take her back to the store because she wouldn’t shut up and I needed my damn beauty sleep). I had also just visited Disney World for the first time and came back plastered with temporary tattoos that remained on my body for quite some time because I was incredible at life and terrible at bathing, apparently. I had dreams that involved Billy Ray Cyrus serenading me from the bottom of the staircase, and in my sleeping-but-happy stupor, I may or may not have sleep-walked to the bottom only to realize that life is never that good.  And because I was such a babe, I had no idea how to interact with boys. I know right – hard to believe that this guru on all things relationship-y (relationshitty? Sorry, ma) could have problems – but believe it.

Lucky for you, I’ll only put you through one such story, displaying my incompetency in matters of the heart. One which probably dictated the future of all encounters with men to come. Picture this: it’s springtime and it’s school dance time. Now, I was not so much of a babe that I ever had a “date” to such occasions, but I mean, people wanted to dance with me, okay? Okay right, school dance time. Mom had just taken me shopping to Limited 2 (because I was stylish too!!!) and bought me some really trendy things–a couple skirts, some tops, and probably some frilly socks. I ended up picking the purple, short, flowy and flowery skirt paired with a cute sleeveless creme-colored top. (Don’t be so skeptical about my memory, please. I remember this because I spilled punch all over myself later, another skill I’ve successfully carried with me into adulthood.)

Okay so there I was, total babe status, right? Right. Standing in the corner, holding on timidly to that clear plastic cup whose contents I would later be wearing, and this boy decided to ask me to dance. (?!?!?!? Who CARES that he’s kinda stout!!!!! A BOY?!?) I oblige, of course, and we begin to slow dance to Chumbawumba or something. And it goes on and on. And I think to myself, God this song is long. His hands are freakin sweaty. His head kinda looks like a vertical football. That punch was good.  

So I left him. Mid-song. Standing there. On the dance floor, alone, swaying to the music. Alone. Um yeah, so no one informed me that it was kind of traditional to dance with the person for the entire song. I did this the rest of the night with guys dumb enough to ask me to dance. One boy I left to dance with some other kid, who I then left to go to the food table. I just thought I was being efficient.

I found out YEARS later that this is not common practice at dances and have subsequently paid in full for my negligence to their feelings. (This boy told me OFF over AIM. He said I was a jerk for not dancing for an entire song with a dude and I was legitimately dumbfounded. I promptly signed off and never chatted with him again. I’m such a heart breaker. )

I guess I could use this entry as an open apology to that kid…and whoever else I danced/dashed that night or others. I didn’t think I was being mean at the time, I just thought that everyone deserved a chance to dance. And that I needed more food. But really, I think this blog serves as a reminder that I am a unique, flawed, but severely interesting person- from those dumb fourth grade dances to now, as I struggle to be an adult and pay bills and not go insane when people interrupt me mid-sentence at work (reminiscent of interrupting a dance, mid-song….). I’m happy with how I turned out and the bizarre path I took to get here.

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