Hold this space [updated finally]

Remind me to tell you a little story about going outside of your comfort zone. I did it tonight, and had a nice little meltdown. Awesome. But right now I have to sleep and get rid of my headache.

So. I should probably fill this in.

Updated finally below the fold:

“Outside of my comfort zone” means we accompanied a couple Hubby and I know to go out…swing dancing. I can hardly say it. It’s just something I never thought I would agree to. It started with an hour easy lesson before the actual dance started. The lesson was fine, started at the very beginning. It took me too long to get the hang of it, and I thought Hubby had done this before, so he would be able to help me out. (I later learned he had done 4- and 8-step, but we were learning 6-step, so he was as lost as I was.) Anyway. My problems started when the instructor told us ladies to rotate partner by one. I was sort of expecting this, so I just got over myself and went to the next guy. Problem was, that guy didn’t want anyone touching his wife expect him, so she stayed put. The instructor tried hard to get her to move along, but both guy and girl were adamant about staying put. Well this threw me into a lather and I was fuming about it the rest of the night. Why should that bitch get to stay put in her secure little place while I was out here with total strangers? Huh? I was mightily pissed, and my face just got redder and redder as the night went on. So I was doing it, the rest of the lesson, getting totally lost once we started doing beginners’ turns. Most of my new partners were fine, just normal people like me, some more experienced than others, but seemed like most were brand new. And then I came to Pervy McChildmolester. That guy still gives me the creeps just thinking about him. I’m already worked up because that fucking bitch and her fucking boyfriend couldn’t play with anyone else, and here I am holding the softest creepiest hands I’ve ever felt in my life. Pervy’s hands were so soft I think he has someone else brush his teeth for him. Seriously: you get more calluses on your hands from making breakfast in the morning. So the whole time (few minutes) we’re “dancing” together I’ve got “It puts the lotion on it’s skin or else it gets the hose again” running through my head. I’m really getting worked up by this point. Then more normal partners and more frustration at not getting the moves right, and then another weirdo right at the end. That guy was unremarkable in his weirdness, just seemed lonely. So now the lesson is over and it’s time to start dancing. I went to the refreshments to get some water, and paper napkins to try and hide that I’m crying. Problem with trying to hide that I’m crying is that I’m a very ugly crier. My face was already red from being so pissed at those fucking “nobody touches my wife but me” assholes, but the crying makes my eyes really bloodshot and red in general, and puffy to boot. So our friends see how miserable I am, and they get their few dances out of their system (they are pretty good!) and mercifully say we can go. Thank the sweet baby Jesus, we could go. I think they thought I was having some allergic reaction, because of course I’m not going to say I hated it there and I wanted to go. So then we went to dinner and I was fine.



Moral of the story: stay home. It’s safe there.