We went to what was supposed to be beginning swing dancing lesson last night, but turned out to be not swing dancing, but rather some sort of fox-trotting, 2-stepping, Dancing with the Stars thing that I was incapable of doing and didn't want to anyway. I was desperately backing away the whole time as we moved down the line in attempt to not step on or be stepped on. The Dance Nazi asked us what the problem was, and he volunteered that it was nothing, just that I was having a nervous breakdown.
"I'm having a nervous breakdown?" I said loudly, grinding to a halt and instantly getting trampled on. The couple behind us crashed into him.
"Calm down," he said, "just calm down for once."
We sat a few out, and returned to the floor a few minutes later when a waltz came on. The waltz was not so bad, in fact it was my favorite. When I managed to get it down, I felt a bit like Sleeping Beauty or Cinderella or some other animated royalty in a poofy-ass dress. At least I thought I was enjoying it until he said to me, "You are so awkward. You do it, and then you fail. Epically."
Oooh. My visions of Disney princesses clouded over to black. We sat down again, and I held my little baby bottle of water in a rage as I watched all the other couples sweep across the floor. After a few more songs of sitting there, I implied that I wanted to go. He made me stay for an ironical raffle in which we won a free pass to next week's lesson, and then we left. I pulled off my heels and let them dangle from my fingers in defeat as we walked back to the car.
He complained of being hungry on the way home, but didn't stop for anything or to eat anywhere. We got back to my place he was set to spend the night at, and he sat on my couch stiffly as Hot Shots played on the television. "Good ole' Charlie Sheen," I said as I reentered the living room from my room where I had changed into the pink and white-hearted sleep ensemble I'd bought to look cute in. I slipped into his arms and laid my head on his lap, where I heard his stomach grumble.
"I have instant mashed potatoes?" I said visualizing the pathetic contents of my kitchen, "and blueberry muffins. Oh and refried beans."
"I don't want Potato Buds. That's a side."
"I didn't say they were Potato Buds. They're actually the Target brand."
Charlie Sheen fried an egg on his costar.
"What are you thinking?" I asked, looking up into his nose.
"That I think I'm going to go home. My room sounds really nice right now and I'm starving."
The train roared by and drowned out whatever soul-destroying things he may have been closing his sentence with. I looked back at the television and sighed quietly. Of course you want to go home. Your room sounds really nice right now, and I have created a nightmare for you here in my tiny duplex of solitude and Potato Buds. I sat up off of his lap shoved the shoes I'd taken off his feet moments earlier over towards him. Truth is I didn't much want him here anyway after the nervous breakdown comment.
Back to work for both of us now. Thank God.