These keystokes represent my first tentative steps into recording my relevant and profound (OK...maybe dull) musings onto the web for world wide consumption (isn't a world wide following every blogger's fantasy??). Blogging has been around for several years and I remember laughing the first time I heard about it. What kind of ego's believe that the world cares about the cuteness of their cat or their crazy sister? I laughed... but I really was curious. Who blogs? Why do they do it? Isn't it just another chore to do between the laundry and the lawn? Where's the motivation?
I asked myself those questions back when blogs numbered in the thousands. Last week I heard that the world wide number of blogs now exceeds 100 million! It's growing exponentially.
But why...????
I'm not the first person to ask. It's actually been studied. One very good paper I've read is titled "I'm Blogging This" A Closer Look at Why People Blog. (I'm not techno-savvy enough to provide a link so you'll have to google it if you want to read it)This paper submits five reasons for the need to blog. 1)documenting one's life, 2)providing commentary and opinions, 3) working out emotional issues, 4) thinking by writing, 5) promoting conversation and community. All legitimate reasons. The paper is very well researched, written, foot noted and the conclusions make sense, but I think the data can be boiled down further and summarized into something much simpler and deeper to the human psyche.
A few years ago (was it even 10??) I watched an hour of a television drama that may have been canceled after a few episodes. I don't remember the name and I don't remember the actors but there was one scene that stayed with me. I recognized it as a very basic truth. An exhausted salesman woke up in his hotel room having slept on top of the covers and in his clothes. He was in a hurry and grabbed his bag and stood at the door looking back at his room. The bed was still made, the towels unused, the soap unopened, etc. He couldn't leave the room until he went back and pulled the covers down, threw a couple towels on the floor and ran some water in the tub. It was too sad for him to know that he was in that room for several hours but left no sign that he had ever been there. He needed to leave proof of his existence.
He needed to Matter.
Isn't that a basic primal instinct of our species? Isn't that a reason behind cave drawings in France, carved initials in the forest, and grafitti in Los Angeles? The kid in L.A. is using his spray paint for the same reason I am using my keyboard.
WE ARE AFFIRMING THAT WE EXIST. On some level we believe that what goes out onto the internet is archived and can be googled and discovered even in the next millenium. To me it feels more permanent than the initials I carved in the birch tree decades ago. If I turn my thoughts and musings into electrons and toss them into the world wide wind ... I'm just saying...
Jim was here.....
Thursday, June 5, 2008
"I Have the Right to Pose Naked"
She told me that and I agreed with her. Which made it that much harder to fire her the same week I hired her.
I've hired hundreds of applicants in my career and I take pride in finding good, talented people. And Debbie was a can't-miss-slam-dunk. She wasn't just going to be the head of marketing...she was going to be the face and voice of the companies local office. She stood out from the other applicants. Debbie had a great personality. She was "perky", which was exactly what we were looking for. Afterwards, I had to defend myself that I hired her for her looks. Certainly she was pretty. But not sexy pretty. Not model pretty. A better description might be 'adorable'. She was the neighbor girl you hired to watch your kids. She was an activities director in a nursing home for God's sake. Her husband was the weekend anchor at the local network. Can't-miss-slam-dunk.
Debbie started on Monday...the same day the local paper did the standard puff peice on our new Marketing Director. On Tuesday a "concerned citizen" dropped off a magazine at our office. Maxim...no problem. Playboy...we might have lived with. Penthouse... would have presented some difficulties. But this was...Hustler. And it wasn't a youthful error. It was the current issue! And she was in the middle in all of her "adorable" spread legged perkiness.
Within hours (maybe it was minutes) it was big news at the corporate office and a couple of clerks were dispatched to gather evidence from the local porn shops so the company officers could see for themselves who Jim hired. They needed to see the evidence for themselves before they made any decisons.
On Thursday I fired her. I had to do it with the corporate attorney listening in on the speaker phone. She cried and I felt awful. She talked about her rights and I countered with our rights. She finally left peacefully and with 2 weeks pay.
I still believe she had the right to pose naked. Anyone does. And you have the right to pierce your toungue and tattoo your neck and have a swastika bumper sticker and drink yourself into a stupor. I even believe you should have the right to get high. But as you exercise your rights and "stick it to the man", you gotta realize that "the man" has got rights too.
Good luck Debbie. I wish you the best.
I've hired hundreds of applicants in my career and I take pride in finding good, talented people. And Debbie was a can't-miss-slam-dunk. She wasn't just going to be the head of marketing...she was going to be the face and voice of the companies local office. She stood out from the other applicants. Debbie had a great personality. She was "perky", which was exactly what we were looking for. Afterwards, I had to defend myself that I hired her for her looks. Certainly she was pretty. But not sexy pretty. Not model pretty. A better description might be 'adorable'. She was the neighbor girl you hired to watch your kids. She was an activities director in a nursing home for God's sake. Her husband was the weekend anchor at the local network. Can't-miss-slam-dunk.
Debbie started on Monday...the same day the local paper did the standard puff peice on our new Marketing Director. On Tuesday a "concerned citizen" dropped off a magazine at our office. Maxim...no problem. Playboy...we might have lived with. Penthouse... would have presented some difficulties. But this was...Hustler. And it wasn't a youthful error. It was the current issue! And she was in the middle in all of her "adorable" spread legged perkiness.
Within hours (maybe it was minutes) it was big news at the corporate office and a couple of clerks were dispatched to gather evidence from the local porn shops so the company officers could see for themselves who Jim hired. They needed to see the evidence for themselves before they made any decisons.
On Thursday I fired her. I had to do it with the corporate attorney listening in on the speaker phone. She cried and I felt awful. She talked about her rights and I countered with our rights. She finally left peacefully and with 2 weeks pay.
I still believe she had the right to pose naked. Anyone does. And you have the right to pierce your toungue and tattoo your neck and have a swastika bumper sticker and drink yourself into a stupor. I even believe you should have the right to get high. But as you exercise your rights and "stick it to the man", you gotta realize that "the man" has got rights too.
Good luck Debbie. I wish you the best.
Finally Something to Admire
Aaron was an ass. He was cruel, racist, lazy, sexist, and he was my boss. Those who worked closest to him never lasted long. After a long line of his female assistants quit after a few months with him, we hired a man who lasted 11 months before resigning after being reduced to tears in front of the rest of the staff.
He boasted that he had friends in high places and couldn't be fired and after so many outrageous incidents that resulted in nothing more than a friendly warning, we came to believe it. I once tried to think up with even one small thing to admire about him. I couldn't do it. Came up empty...
...until I heard the details of how he killed himself.
Aaron's reign came to an end through the most unlikely hero. Betty was a timid, nervous woman who never really made eye contact during the interview. But Aaron's reputation was well known and she was the only applicant. That was a good enough qualification and she was hired. Her resume told us where she worked before and where she went to school but it never showed us her back bone. Solid Titanium. Sure, she cried. But she fought back and we rallied around her and based on all of our testimony, Aaron was finally fired.
But I'm not writing about Betty. Admiring her was easy. I still do. This story is about how Aaron killed himself.
On January 2nd, the local paper, the sheriffs office, and various relatives were informed in writing of Aaron's death...by Aaron himself. When the sheriff arrived at the address, he found a home that was spotless and devoid of furniture. An envelope filled with instructions was on a kitchen counter. Aaron and his wife (and the cat) were in the front seat of Buick in the still fume filled garage. They had written their own obituaries and sent them to the paper with a check, prepaid for a simple cremation, sold all the furniture, taken their clothes to the thrift store, discontinued utility services and paid the final bills, cleaned the house, applied for the life insurance benefits, and left instructions for the disbursement of any remaining assets. They had taken care of every conceivable detail. It was so clean. So efficient. Why?? It went completely against how he lived. It took a dumpster to clean out his office but just an envelope to clean up his life? Was it one last act of control? Was he trying to make amends for a messy life?
Whatever his reasons were, I was fascinated. I still believe suicide is the ultimate act of cowardice...but...(and I apologize everytime I tell this story)...but ...I gotta admit...I was impressed. This was something about Aaron I could admire.
Rest in Peace Aaron.
He boasted that he had friends in high places and couldn't be fired and after so many outrageous incidents that resulted in nothing more than a friendly warning, we came to believe it. I once tried to think up with even one small thing to admire about him. I couldn't do it. Came up empty...
...until I heard the details of how he killed himself.
Aaron's reign came to an end through the most unlikely hero. Betty was a timid, nervous woman who never really made eye contact during the interview. But Aaron's reputation was well known and she was the only applicant. That was a good enough qualification and she was hired. Her resume told us where she worked before and where she went to school but it never showed us her back bone. Solid Titanium. Sure, she cried. But she fought back and we rallied around her and based on all of our testimony, Aaron was finally fired.
But I'm not writing about Betty. Admiring her was easy. I still do. This story is about how Aaron killed himself.
On January 2nd, the local paper, the sheriffs office, and various relatives were informed in writing of Aaron's death...by Aaron himself. When the sheriff arrived at the address, he found a home that was spotless and devoid of furniture. An envelope filled with instructions was on a kitchen counter. Aaron and his wife (and the cat) were in the front seat of Buick in the still fume filled garage. They had written their own obituaries and sent them to the paper with a check, prepaid for a simple cremation, sold all the furniture, taken their clothes to the thrift store, discontinued utility services and paid the final bills, cleaned the house, applied for the life insurance benefits, and left instructions for the disbursement of any remaining assets. They had taken care of every conceivable detail. It was so clean. So efficient. Why?? It went completely against how he lived. It took a dumpster to clean out his office but just an envelope to clean up his life? Was it one last act of control? Was he trying to make amends for a messy life?
Whatever his reasons were, I was fascinated. I still believe suicide is the ultimate act of cowardice...but...(and I apologize everytime I tell this story)...but ...I gotta admit...I was impressed. This was something about Aaron I could admire.
Rest in Peace Aaron.
Silver Linings and Bipolar Bonuses
The picture in the paper was taken at 1:00am and showed me with my hands on my head looking in disbelief at the mangled entry doors to the mall.
Thanksgiving was 4 days away and the timing was horrible. The only witness was the guy in the parking lot sweeper who said, "I thought the headlights were my own reflection until the doors exploded and this little gray car drove out of the mall."
The story in the paper went on to explain that shortly after midnight a car crashed through the automatic doors of the east entrance drove the length of the mall, running into holiday displays, vendors carts, food court tables, before exiting through the west entrance and escaping into the night. The only evidence was a gray driver's mirror at center court.
It had already been a tough year. Traffic and revenue were down because of a new mall in the area. My year end bonus was tied to annual revenue. It was an "all or nothing" bonus system. If I fell even five dollars short of budget, I received nothing. By the end of November I was looking at a forty thousand dollar short fall.
And now this...
We spent the night getting the mall ready for the next days shoppers and the following afternoon we had a visit from our insurance claims adjuster. Damages were estimated at about $40,000. And the "silver lining light bulb" was lit over my head.
In a few weeks, the insurance check was collected, repairs were made, and the bills were paid. Who would notice or even care if the check was deposited on December 28th and the bills weren't paid until January 8th?
I made my bonus with $850 to spare.
They later caught Adam, a 19 year old kid who was off his medication for a bi-polar disorder. During a manic episode he felt compelled to take a driving tour of our mall and never could explain why.
Sometimes you have to get creative but there are opportunities or silver linings in every crisis. Thanks Adam!
Thanksgiving was 4 days away and the timing was horrible. The only witness was the guy in the parking lot sweeper who said, "I thought the headlights were my own reflection until the doors exploded and this little gray car drove out of the mall."
The story in the paper went on to explain that shortly after midnight a car crashed through the automatic doors of the east entrance drove the length of the mall, running into holiday displays, vendors carts, food court tables, before exiting through the west entrance and escaping into the night. The only evidence was a gray driver's mirror at center court.
It had already been a tough year. Traffic and revenue were down because of a new mall in the area. My year end bonus was tied to annual revenue. It was an "all or nothing" bonus system. If I fell even five dollars short of budget, I received nothing. By the end of November I was looking at a forty thousand dollar short fall.
And now this...
We spent the night getting the mall ready for the next days shoppers and the following afternoon we had a visit from our insurance claims adjuster. Damages were estimated at about $40,000. And the "silver lining light bulb" was lit over my head.
In a few weeks, the insurance check was collected, repairs were made, and the bills were paid. Who would notice or even care if the check was deposited on December 28th and the bills weren't paid until January 8th?
I made my bonus with $850 to spare.
They later caught Adam, a 19 year old kid who was off his medication for a bi-polar disorder. During a manic episode he felt compelled to take a driving tour of our mall and never could explain why.
Sometimes you have to get creative but there are opportunities or silver linings in every crisis. Thanks Adam!
Two Summers - One Lesson
If you're lucky some of the important life lessons can be learned early. I didn't realize it at the time but this lesson I learned in elementary school stuck with me for the rest of my life.
A few days before the end of the 3rd grade, Mrs. McWhinnie (loved that name!) announced that the school and the local libraries were sponsoring a summer reading contest. Whoever read the most books before the start of the next school year would win a wonderful prize. All of the libraries would have contest entry forms and the librarian would record how many books you checked out over the summer.
This announcement came just a month after bikes were awarded to the winners of the fund raising contest that I had only half heartedly participated in. I quickly deduced that if bikes were awarded for 3 weeks worth of selling magazines and wrapping paper...then the prize for 3 months of reading during your summer break...must be like 10 times better than a bike! ( I was a reader, not a mathematician)
I was going to go for it. I liked to read anyway and I knew that my only serious competition was Julie Beudreau. Julie read during recess which clearly was a sign of a compulsive disorder. She might be a problem.
That summer I read. I read in bed, I read in the bathroom, I read in the car, I read at the barbers, I read at dinner, I read at the rodeo, I read while camping, I just read. Occasionally my friends would peal me away for a bike ride but I couldn't enjoy it because I just KNEW Julie was reading. I pictured that compulsive little suck up setting her alarm for 4am so she could get to more books. I couldn't let up if I was going to beat her.
It did occur to me to cheat but imagined that with such a fabulous prize at stake there was probably going to be some sort of test on the books...maybe even fingerprinting of the pages...so I read every word.
By summer's end I had logged 48 books with the librarian and was certain that I had fallen at least a dozen books short. On the first day of 4th Grade the principal came into our classroom to personally award the Summer Reading Prize.
I looked at Julie and tried to imitate her apparent non-chalance. If she was going to pretend not to care - so was I.
"Good morning class. I'm so proud...blah, blah, blah...everyone's a winner...blah, blah blah...and the winner for the whole school comes from this very class room."
My heart was beating in my head.
"With an amazing 48 books read, the prize goes to Jimmy Crocker. Jimmy, could you come up here please?"
I walked (maybe I swaggered) to the front of the class and received my 1st place certificate and my...
...Bookmark. That's it. A bookmark.
A certificate, a bookmark, my name displayed in the school trophy case for the entire school year, teasing for being a bookworm, and accusations of cheating (because no one is stupid enough to spend their summer actually reading 48 books). The only person who seemed actually impressed with my acheivement was - Julie Beudreau (19 books). While she congratulated me and we discussed the books we had read, I noticed that besides reading, she'd spent the summer getting kinda hot. I decided it wouldn't be such a sacrifice to give up a little recess tetherball for the occasional book discussion with Julie.
By the end of 4th grade, I was just Jim...no more Jimmy. The summer reading contest was announced again but I was having none of it. I'd climbed that ladder and I knew what was at the top.
That summer (maybe the funnest 3 months of my life) was spent riding bikes and horses. We fished until it got hot, then we threw down our poles and the fishing hole turned into a swimming hole. We had a 30 foot rope tied to a cottonwood and we timed ourselves to the top everyday. I danced at the reservation Pow Wow and went on a cattle drive at my friends ranch. I stacked hay on the farm and learned to water ski. I slept in a tent nearly as often as I slept in my bed. And to completely destroy my book worm rep I even got arrested. (but that's another story) I can't remember for sure but I must have read a couple of books because I still needed something to talk to Julie about in the fall.
I don't think there was a conscious realization that I'd learned a life lesson that summer but I'm sure it's something I must have internalized on some level. I'd discovered that the "fabulous prize" wasn't something I had to work for or something that could be awarded by someone else. The prize was being able to live on the Wind River in Wyoming and seeing the mountains from my bedroom window. It was having good friends and a healthy body and to have the freedom to enjoy both. It was having great parents and a brother who was my best friend.
And I was given that prize every single morning.
Ever since then I've been careful. I don't want to spend years climbing a ladder just to discover it's been leaning against the wrong wall. Why wait for a vague promise that there is a land of milk and honey in your future. Look around. You are surrounded by milk and honey already.
Just taste it.
A few days before the end of the 3rd grade, Mrs. McWhinnie (loved that name!) announced that the school and the local libraries were sponsoring a summer reading contest. Whoever read the most books before the start of the next school year would win a wonderful prize. All of the libraries would have contest entry forms and the librarian would record how many books you checked out over the summer.
This announcement came just a month after bikes were awarded to the winners of the fund raising contest that I had only half heartedly participated in. I quickly deduced that if bikes were awarded for 3 weeks worth of selling magazines and wrapping paper...then the prize for 3 months of reading during your summer break...must be like 10 times better than a bike! ( I was a reader, not a mathematician)
I was going to go for it. I liked to read anyway and I knew that my only serious competition was Julie Beudreau. Julie read during recess which clearly was a sign of a compulsive disorder. She might be a problem.
That summer I read. I read in bed, I read in the bathroom, I read in the car, I read at the barbers, I read at dinner, I read at the rodeo, I read while camping, I just read. Occasionally my friends would peal me away for a bike ride but I couldn't enjoy it because I just KNEW Julie was reading. I pictured that compulsive little suck up setting her alarm for 4am so she could get to more books. I couldn't let up if I was going to beat her.
It did occur to me to cheat but imagined that with such a fabulous prize at stake there was probably going to be some sort of test on the books...maybe even fingerprinting of the pages...so I read every word.
By summer's end I had logged 48 books with the librarian and was certain that I had fallen at least a dozen books short. On the first day of 4th Grade the principal came into our classroom to personally award the Summer Reading Prize.
I looked at Julie and tried to imitate her apparent non-chalance. If she was going to pretend not to care - so was I.
"Good morning class. I'm so proud...blah, blah, blah...everyone's a winner...blah, blah blah...and the winner for the whole school comes from this very class room."
My heart was beating in my head.
"With an amazing 48 books read, the prize goes to Jimmy Crocker. Jimmy, could you come up here please?"
I walked (maybe I swaggered) to the front of the class and received my 1st place certificate and my...
...Bookmark. That's it. A bookmark.
A certificate, a bookmark, my name displayed in the school trophy case for the entire school year, teasing for being a bookworm, and accusations of cheating (because no one is stupid enough to spend their summer actually reading 48 books). The only person who seemed actually impressed with my acheivement was - Julie Beudreau (19 books). While she congratulated me and we discussed the books we had read, I noticed that besides reading, she'd spent the summer getting kinda hot. I decided it wouldn't be such a sacrifice to give up a little recess tetherball for the occasional book discussion with Julie.
By the end of 4th grade, I was just Jim...no more Jimmy. The summer reading contest was announced again but I was having none of it. I'd climbed that ladder and I knew what was at the top.
That summer (maybe the funnest 3 months of my life) was spent riding bikes and horses. We fished until it got hot, then we threw down our poles and the fishing hole turned into a swimming hole. We had a 30 foot rope tied to a cottonwood and we timed ourselves to the top everyday. I danced at the reservation Pow Wow and went on a cattle drive at my friends ranch. I stacked hay on the farm and learned to water ski. I slept in a tent nearly as often as I slept in my bed. And to completely destroy my book worm rep I even got arrested. (but that's another story) I can't remember for sure but I must have read a couple of books because I still needed something to talk to Julie about in the fall.
I don't think there was a conscious realization that I'd learned a life lesson that summer but I'm sure it's something I must have internalized on some level. I'd discovered that the "fabulous prize" wasn't something I had to work for or something that could be awarded by someone else. The prize was being able to live on the Wind River in Wyoming and seeing the mountains from my bedroom window. It was having good friends and a healthy body and to have the freedom to enjoy both. It was having great parents and a brother who was my best friend.
And I was given that prize every single morning.
Ever since then I've been careful. I don't want to spend years climbing a ladder just to discover it's been leaning against the wrong wall. Why wait for a vague promise that there is a land of milk and honey in your future. Look around. You are surrounded by milk and honey already.
Just taste it.
The Secret of Happiness...
...is lowered expectations.
I'm not being cynical, and I'm not the first to think this, but I really believe I'm on to something.
How many experiences in life teach us that the end result never lives up to the expectation? Of course there are exceptions but don't we often find that the event is no where near as thrilling as the anticipation of it? Does the fantasy of going to DisneyWorld outweigh the reality of long lines in the heat?
What is your favorite part of Christmas? Sure...you're grateful for the gifts, but are you nearly as excited by owning them as you were by looking at that pile of pretty, wrapped boxes of possibilities? That wonderful stack of mysterious. Anything could be in them. Anything at all. And you get to savor that anticipation for weeks.
And what about dating? As we check ourselves in the mirror before heading out the door, isn't there a little bit of anticipation that this might be the one! Isn't that what keeps us slogging through the dating fatigue and the disappointment of realizing over dessert, "Nope, not this one."
Although it looks like I'm building a case for the joys of anticipation, I'm actually saying that our addiction to that unrealistic anticipation is what's screwing up our reality. Why are there peasants in Guatemala and tribes in Nairobi that are just as happy as wealthy Americans? It's because they wake up and see that the sun is shining and the corn is growing and they smile at their good fortune. The American is pissed because his Guatemalan gardener didn't trim the hedges after he mowed the lawn and now he has to wait in line 3 minutes at Starbucks.
Yeah, I think the key to happiness is lowered expectations. At 20 I was looking forward to adventure, love and wealth, at 40 I was happy when my wife and kids were happy, but one day when my life finally revolves around nothing but a good nights sleep and regular bowel movements, I'll be a truly happy man.
I slept well last night and the sun is shining.
Life is good.
I'm not being cynical, and I'm not the first to think this, but I really believe I'm on to something.
How many experiences in life teach us that the end result never lives up to the expectation? Of course there are exceptions but don't we often find that the event is no where near as thrilling as the anticipation of it? Does the fantasy of going to DisneyWorld outweigh the reality of long lines in the heat?
What is your favorite part of Christmas? Sure...you're grateful for the gifts, but are you nearly as excited by owning them as you were by looking at that pile of pretty, wrapped boxes of possibilities? That wonderful stack of mysterious. Anything could be in them. Anything at all. And you get to savor that anticipation for weeks.
And what about dating? As we check ourselves in the mirror before heading out the door, isn't there a little bit of anticipation that this might be the one! Isn't that what keeps us slogging through the dating fatigue and the disappointment of realizing over dessert, "Nope, not this one."
Although it looks like I'm building a case for the joys of anticipation, I'm actually saying that our addiction to that unrealistic anticipation is what's screwing up our reality. Why are there peasants in Guatemala and tribes in Nairobi that are just as happy as wealthy Americans? It's because they wake up and see that the sun is shining and the corn is growing and they smile at their good fortune. The American is pissed because his Guatemalan gardener didn't trim the hedges after he mowed the lawn and now he has to wait in line 3 minutes at Starbucks.
Yeah, I think the key to happiness is lowered expectations. At 20 I was looking forward to adventure, love and wealth, at 40 I was happy when my wife and kids were happy, but one day when my life finally revolves around nothing but a good nights sleep and regular bowel movements, I'll be a truly happy man.
I slept well last night and the sun is shining.
Life is good.
Don't let her see you dance...
That was the only advice Troy gave me for my upcoming date. I went to high school with him and he knows he's talking about. It's not like I go into spastic contortions (see Elaine Bennis - Seinfeld) or attempt any corny disco moves...it's just that I do what all self conscious white guys do on the dance floor. I sway from foot to foot and when I'm really feeling the rhythm I'll throw in a couple of head bobs. This style was so prevalent at Hurricane High School that we've called it the Hurricane Shuffle for the past 30 years. It falls well short of embarrassing but it screams to the world "I've got no rhythm! Please stop the music and let me sit down!"
The advice was not just useful, it was going to be easy to follow. I always avoided dancing would continue to do so. Although we were on her turf and we had pretty fluid plans, none of those plans involved shuffling my feet to the beat. We were going to a Bar-b-que so there would be nothing to worry about...right? Upon arrival I see that it wasn't just a Bar-B-que...it was Tucson's version of Mardis Gras and there were bands everywhere...Doh! In short order we were sitting on hay bales and tapping our feet as the Fabulous Shitheads (I'm serious) pulled off a decent Bruce Springsteen. My efforts towards a shouted conversation were failing. I pretended not to notice that her feet were tapping and her shoulders were swaying. A bass guitar finally pulled her and a girlfriend onto the dance floor as I pretended to be fascinated by my drink.I love watching women dance. Do they feel as natural as they look? Why are they so good at it? The sensual movement of the hips, the confident pucker of the lips, the half closed eyes, the arms that know exactly where to go...the knowledge that men are watching and approving. Do they practice? Do they study video and and spend hours in front of the mirror working on technique? Are they as lost in the music as they look or are they aware of every movement? See? There's my problem. I think and analyze too much.If I still entertained any hope of not joining Holly on the dance floor, it disappeared when she added a new move to her repertoire. Without breaking rhythm she caught my eye, pointed a finger at me and curled it twice back towards her and the band. Forget Troy's advice. With an invitation like that I would have risen from a wheelchair and crawled towards her.
So I'm dancing. And I'm telling myself "let go, feel natural". But it's not working so I take a sterner approach with the repressed 17 year old inside me. "FEEL NATURAL, NOW, DAMMIT!" But it's still not working, so I switch to plan B...copy other male dancers. The guy in the cowboy hat is doing some sort of pivot/wiggle thing so I do the same. The Asian kid has got his arms completely over his head. This seems rash to me but I compromise and raise my hands from chest high to ear high. So in addition to my own patented head bob, I've got the pivot/wiggle, raised hands thing going on. I'm making occasional eye contact with my date and I'm hoping my smile is saying "This is freaking wonderful!" instead of "I'd rather be scrubbing port-a-potties!" But wait! That black guy is dancing behind his date with his hands on her hips. That's perfect! Close contact and she can't see me! So before Springsteen can finish telling me that ...baby he was born to run...I've manuevered myself behind Holly and very casually..almost accidently...put my hands on her hips...and oh my...I think she approves! Her hips start doing this rapid belly dancer kinda thing which is fantastic and my hands are very pleased to be a part of it...but then I realize that I've stopped moving. I'm too close to her to do the cowboys pivot/wiggle and it's going to take a fire hose to get my hands off her hips, so I fell back on the moves that have been proven for 30 years. The Hurricane Shuffle. Foot movement is limited to the heels only and random head bobs are encouraged.
The next song sped up but Holly was as gracious as she was sexy and she mercifully limited my "bear on a unicycle swatting flies" imitation to just about eight more minutes. Dancing was followed up with a nice dinner and some extremely witty (if I do say so myself) conversation. But alas, the damage had been done and my "thanks, I had a great time" email was followed with her "me too, but let's just be friends" response.
Sigh...next time I'm raising my hands all the way over my head.
The advice was not just useful, it was going to be easy to follow. I always avoided dancing would continue to do so. Although we were on her turf and we had pretty fluid plans, none of those plans involved shuffling my feet to the beat. We were going to a Bar-b-que so there would be nothing to worry about...right? Upon arrival I see that it wasn't just a Bar-B-que...it was Tucson's version of Mardis Gras and there were bands everywhere...Doh! In short order we were sitting on hay bales and tapping our feet as the Fabulous Shitheads (I'm serious) pulled off a decent Bruce Springsteen. My efforts towards a shouted conversation were failing. I pretended not to notice that her feet were tapping and her shoulders were swaying. A bass guitar finally pulled her and a girlfriend onto the dance floor as I pretended to be fascinated by my drink.I love watching women dance. Do they feel as natural as they look? Why are they so good at it? The sensual movement of the hips, the confident pucker of the lips, the half closed eyes, the arms that know exactly where to go...the knowledge that men are watching and approving. Do they practice? Do they study video and and spend hours in front of the mirror working on technique? Are they as lost in the music as they look or are they aware of every movement? See? There's my problem. I think and analyze too much.If I still entertained any hope of not joining Holly on the dance floor, it disappeared when she added a new move to her repertoire. Without breaking rhythm she caught my eye, pointed a finger at me and curled it twice back towards her and the band. Forget Troy's advice. With an invitation like that I would have risen from a wheelchair and crawled towards her.
So I'm dancing. And I'm telling myself "let go, feel natural". But it's not working so I take a sterner approach with the repressed 17 year old inside me. "FEEL NATURAL, NOW, DAMMIT!" But it's still not working, so I switch to plan B...copy other male dancers. The guy in the cowboy hat is doing some sort of pivot/wiggle thing so I do the same. The Asian kid has got his arms completely over his head. This seems rash to me but I compromise and raise my hands from chest high to ear high. So in addition to my own patented head bob, I've got the pivot/wiggle, raised hands thing going on. I'm making occasional eye contact with my date and I'm hoping my smile is saying "This is freaking wonderful!" instead of "I'd rather be scrubbing port-a-potties!" But wait! That black guy is dancing behind his date with his hands on her hips. That's perfect! Close contact and she can't see me! So before Springsteen can finish telling me that ...baby he was born to run...I've manuevered myself behind Holly and very casually..almost accidently...put my hands on her hips...and oh my...I think she approves! Her hips start doing this rapid belly dancer kinda thing which is fantastic and my hands are very pleased to be a part of it...but then I realize that I've stopped moving. I'm too close to her to do the cowboys pivot/wiggle and it's going to take a fire hose to get my hands off her hips, so I fell back on the moves that have been proven for 30 years. The Hurricane Shuffle. Foot movement is limited to the heels only and random head bobs are encouraged.
The next song sped up but Holly was as gracious as she was sexy and she mercifully limited my "bear on a unicycle swatting flies" imitation to just about eight more minutes. Dancing was followed up with a nice dinner and some extremely witty (if I do say so myself) conversation. But alas, the damage had been done and my "thanks, I had a great time" email was followed with her "me too, but let's just be friends" response.
Sigh...next time I'm raising my hands all the way over my head.
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