Leslie Marie Collins

I want to speak up about something that is a stupid trend.  Yeah, I get it… we are all actors.  Yeah, I get it.   We all do shows.  Yeah, I get it that we all have to promote ourselves because as actors we are selling ourselves essentially and we have a lot of business contacts as “friends.”  But I get it, as actors you gotta keep people in the loop about what you are doing in show business.  But I feel like there is a difference between that and just telling the facebook world that you booked something for you to selfishly get congratulations from other people and boost your ego.  I don’t know… you just seem like you are bragging and that’s stupid.  If you are gonna brag, then take some show photos and we’ll figure it out when we see it in your feed and say, “Ohhhh, that looks cool!  Wow, they are doing neat things!!!”  But it’s douchey when you just come out and say it.  People, be more humble.  I know I have to do it sometimes but I have a fan page (ridiculous, yet true.  I only have like 7 fans anyway… and most of them are relatives) for all those bragging posts that I have to scream to the world about or plugging shows (usually, it’s just me posting pictures of homemade tortillas that I made, bragging still). So, why do actors write in their statuses “I just booked _____!!!”  So grateful for the work!!!”????   That comment is only for yourself to get pats on the back to make you feel better.  Just. be. humble.  My 2 cents.  Maybe I got issues but I can’t help but think there has been a recent trend to just plain out brag to the world about your successes.  Well, stop it.  It’s annoying.  It makes you look like a dick.  OK, I’m better now.  I just had to rant a little.  I’m done.  :) 

Well, this last week was the last show for the L’Amour sisters for a bit, but we’ll be back.  So, if you missed it… we’ll do another one.  Lorraine and I had such a blast playing these L’Amour sisters and singing their ridiculous songs about love and sex.  I will keep you posted on what’s next for the L;Amour sisters.  We’ll keep you posted on our Craigslist ads (if you saw the show, you know what this means) :)

Borealis is still rocking the stage every Friday night at 8.  We have a new group of amazing and very seasoned improvisers sharing the hour with us, so the basement is hot on Friday nights.  Seriously… funny, funny shows.  Borealis has been improvising together for 4 years now?  Or about that.  But I have been improvising with Jonathan Desley and Jamie Cummings for 5 or more years I think, so if you are in to see a show with improvisers who know each other well, Borealis is always the show to catch.  Plus, we added Oscar Montoya to the mix which has upped our level of awesome.  He’s such a great player and just his style adds a new sort of flare to our team play

HELLO has been such a blast for me over the last year and a half.  This team was put together by the artistic director to try to give the PIT a great musical improv team to lead the force.  I was lucky enough to be asked to play, along with some seriously talented improvisers who also happen to have crazy amazing vocal chops.  Since then, the PIT has added some AWESOME musical improvisers to the fold and HELLO has been building a loyal following on Friday nights.  Now there also is a dedicated night (Thursday nights) to showcase this awesome form of improv and it’s talented performers from all over the city.  The PIT has some of the best talent in NYC when it comes to musical improv, so catch us in HELLO on Friday nights at 9:30 or any of the other awesome musical improv shows on Thursday nights.  I really do feel like this is the coolest, new thing in improv lately… so get onboard and see why everyone is LOVING musical improv.  

I auditioned to be on a house team at the Magnet about 6 months ago and I was put on a team that is stellar.  I am lucky to perform with these guys and sing next to them.  Never have I been on a musical house team with this level of vocal ability.  It’s a small and mighty group of people. I LOVE the Magnet and they also have a knock out musical improv program.  So, if you want to see me do more musical improv each week, come check out the Magnet on Tuesday nights.  My team is called Legend and I really do feel that it is a legendary team.  It has funny performers and great voices.  What else do you need?  

They met.  They met at state dinner given by President Reagan.  He was a musician and she was the most powerful woman in all of England, except for the queen.  That bitch. Power.  He was just the entertainment for the dinner.  He had a past. Dirty past. Rumors.  Rumors circulated about his sexuality, but that made it even more exciting to her.  She would feel different to him… down there.  She knew he had a passionate past, one filled with dangerous sexual escapades with anyone who happened to be lurking around a corner or in a men’s restroom.  He was known as someone who would gladly pull down his sequined pants and provide nourishment for any sexually deprived person, male or female who needed his touch.  Male or female. 

She lived a life of upmost, pristine care.  Her image was one of perfection… intelligence.  Power.  She, living a life of being England’s 2^nd most powerful woman, had led her to a desert of loneliness, that could only be filled with a Kir Royal every evening and slow rub down in her private bubble bath at 10 Downing street.  She was the prime minister, but she still had needs that no act of parliament could give her.  She was lonely and as a woman who was menopausal, her hormones were intense and left her with a sexual urge and appetite that could never be quenched.  She, living a day to day life in meetings with powerful men all across the world, making deals, signing things into law, she asked herself… “why can’t they see me?  It’s me, Margaret.  Why can’t they understand that a woman this powerful needs sexual attention, it doesn’t always have to be about world affairs”  “I need an affair!!!” 

 She had sent out signals and even though they were strong, the leaders of the world knew that if they partook in her sexuality, their position to England would be compromised.  Laws would not be passed. The world would be in chaos, all because of the pleasure that comes with what’s between the legs… the prime minster’s legs.  Her moist bits would be dangerous territory for anyone who set their sights on them.

  She had dinner with Gorbechav once, discussed world affairs and he had slid his massive hand up her thigh, and even though she quivered intensely and found amusement in his hambone shaped birthmark on his forehead, she knew that it wasn’t going to be possible.  Until the wall comes down, her wall wouldn’t come down on him.  There was too much on the line in the world.  She might one day be with Russia’s most powerful man, but he had to make progress first and then she would reconsider.  Once, she was with Reagan discussing world affairs in the oval office and she felt a sexual breeze between them, and even as the old Gipper took her aside and cornered her near a dirty bathroom in the west wing, she knew that if she risked it all now, this wasn’t going to be the one to risk it with.  But she understood why he wanted her so, because his ninny wife Nancy looked as if she could never satisfied the old Gipper.  She enjoyed playing with his Reagan though. She brushed up against his Reagan, there by the dirty west wing bathroom but left it as a tease.  There was just too much on the line.  America and England were close to a sexual war… a war in the bedroom and she knew she would win… but she left it at that.  Another day perhaps…

The state dinner was terrible that night, a tournedo of beef, mushy potatoes and tasteless American wine but the Maine oysters on half shell served as the aphrodisiac that sent her menopausal hormones through the roof.  But with the musician that was about to take the stage, she knew that with his livelihood, she would have a little leeway and hopefully a memory forever.  He performed at the piano with style, grace, flare, sparkles.  Hit after hit.  She knew he had to be her next conquest.  After the performance, she gave him a standing ovation, and knew that that wouldn’t be the last standing ovation she would give him.  She found him backstage, taking off his sparkled, rhinestone laden sunglasses and wiping the beads of sweat off his head and out of his feathers.  They were countrymen and felt familiar with each other  In an awkward exchange, sensing the sexual tension.. she attempted to make a joke…  “Hold Me Closer, Tiny Dancer,”  he laughed appreciating that she knew his song.  Of course she did, she knew it well as she masturbated to it in her 10 Downing Street bubble bath.  Their eyes connected.  A silence fell upon them backstage, where only those involved understand what is happening.  She saw an instantaneous arousal in his white satin sequined pants.  She slowly lifted her tweed knee length skirt, revealing her supple ankles and knee-high stockings.  She, knowing the gift she was about to give him, had removed her panties while eating dinner at the table.  No one noticed.  It was her secret.  Ha ha!  So that when she continued to lift her tweed skirt, what a surprise the musician would see!  Not noticing who else was backstage, she quickly felt a large hand lay upon her shoulder and turn her around.  There was another, another man!!!!  How glorious.  All while the state dinner was still continuing, Nelson Mandela was speaking to a crowded room and she and the musician and another unknown man coiled in love making for 47 minutes exactly.  In and out.  Like fingercuffs.  Her mouth on his member.  His tongue on her hairy salt and pepper fleshy mound of pleasure.  The unknown man panting like a dog, enjoying this threesome tryst. They were, back and forth.  She liked it hard.  She liked it rough.  She came and a ocean of pleasure came as she tried to stifle her loud screams of pleasure.  The musician pushed her to her knees.  The musician only uttered two words… “IRON LADY!!!!!” as he came.  The unknown man came soon after.  She had left her silk top on and both men finished in her well-coiffed perfectly placed hair.  Oops.  She would have to conceal it somehow… but no matter No other words were exchanged.  She felt as if she was a first for all involved as it seemed thrilling and uncharted territory.  She had also left her watch on, just so she could remember how many fabulous minutes she would be remembering.  As her senses came to her post coitus, she thought she recognized the other man.  His face seemed friendly, young, nubile…all American.   She had seen him in political circles.  He was well placed, she knew.  He had an unfamiliar accent and then she knew, he was the son of the Vice President of the United States.  George W. Bush.  She could tell he was sloppy drunk and didn’t know where he was… but all the better.  He wouldn’t tell.  But she knew he would be going places by the way he fucked.  The musician… He walked out from backstage, interrupted Nelson Mandela’s speech and sang an impromptu song, half dressed and still with lovemaking juices on his hands.  She watched from the wings, he played one more song looking into her eyes for the world’s most famous politicians but really for her… he started to tinkle on the keys and looked at Margaret in the wings and sang a song to her.  Hold Me closer, Tiny Dancer” It was a wonderful affair.   

I went home for two weeks over the holidays.  My parents live in Southlake, TX which is a well to do town just north of the airport full of residents such as wealthy ball players and CEOs that need close access to the airport. Not that my parents are super wealthy or anything they just bought a house in an area that boomed right after they moved in.  Southlake has done lots of construction over the last 15 years and now there is almost any luxury store you could ask for within a 10 minute drive.  Everyone is well off and beautiful it seems.  A few country folk have remained, refusing to be pushed out but their property taxes have probably put them over the edge over the last 15 years.  If they could afford it, their farms will just be made into a new fancy subdivision in a matter of time when the bid is high enough.  That’s just the cycle.  It makes me sad, just because the land looked so different.  There used to be beautiful longhorns that grazed on the land.  All you can see now are the tops of McMansions spreading over the land as far as the eye can see.  Many country folk made millions by selling their valuable land in this oasis close to the airport, and high tailed it out of town, so little original character remains.  But there are a few roaming around and I wonder what they think of their small town off of farm route 1709.  Homes are like castles, with those stupid castle-like turrets and churches are like shrines with million dollar fountains out front.  They have more money than you can imagine.  Jesus-domes or Super-domes to God is what I’ve heard them referred to as.  They are huge and have thousands of members with thousands of offertory gifts coming in every week.  My parents are on the board of the church and just over the Christmas Eve weekend, the church brought in millions of dollars from year end pledges.  This seems like a foreign idea to me.  Just giving 10% of your yearly earnings to a church, but that’s what my parents have done for as long as I can remember and it probably paid for programs that I was part of that helped educate me.  I’m just a broke actor, so the idea of giving away that much money to a church seems crazy, but good people do it every day.  This money pays the bills, feeds people, pays salaries, helps habitat for humanity, outreach programs, builds new additions on to the growing church, etc.  At least, I hope it does.  But what happens if a church has too much money?  I think quite a few churches in Southlake have a little bit too much money.  These churches look a lot like country clubs in a way.  Not as humble as I would wish, but that’s just me.  When there are fog machines and LED light displays during each solo, maybe, just maybe those dollars could have been used to feed a family across the world for a year.  I don’t need a fog machine to understand how meaningful the words in a song can be.  Let’s just hope that fog machine and LED light display was donated to the church by some faithful theater technician!

But, I have mixed feelings about it though.  I grew up in church.  I was there every other day for some sort of youth program, sunday school, youth musical presentation, youth choir trip, ski trip, etc.  I grew up at a different church but I will say that church was always a place to be doing things at.  A place that always kept me busy.  It was community for my parents with like minded people.  I made lots of friends and I learned about music and art, more so than I ever did at school.  So was my parents 10% worth it?  I think so.  It gave me a strong foundation in the arts and reminded me to be a good kid, and I was for the most part.  Music has always been a huge part of my life and I would never have understood Handel’s Messiah or appreciated it as I do when I hear it.  My parents church has a full orchestra and every time I have gone there, there is some sort of musical extravaganza that is beyond words.  Many churches pay for professional singers each week, but this line up of professionals is something else!  The huge orchestra is (for the most part) volunteer and they are awesome.  The musicians are excellent and I cry every time I sing a song in church.  The music reaches me.  It is beautiful.  Seriously, if someone was to film me at church, I would be that woman crying during each song (but I would never put my hands up in the air!!!)

My parents started attending a church that was quite small when they started.  Just a little chapel with a small graveyard beside it.  It had a new, young preacher and the congregation was starting to grow with all the new people moving in.  The preacher was good too.  He speaks in iambic pentameter it seems but his message is always funny, insiteful and not too long, so he was really bringing in the new congregation.  They had to expand and with all the upscale housing boom and it’s wealthy residents, Southlake was able to build a HUGE new sanctuary, and then classrooms, and then a youth building, and then new offices for the growing staff and so on and so on.  They had lots of money to expand and they did.  Today it is grand and beautiful.  As big as any cathedral you’d see in Europe.  Down the street, there is another community church just as big and beautiful.  Every church in town is growing.  Southlake is the town of beautiful new churches and beautiful white people.  Yep, all white people it seems.  I looked around at the church and I didn’t see one person who wasn’t white.  I grew up in that bubble and the bubble is fine, but I am so glad that I live in NYC, where I live next to people of all creeds and colors.  I am better for it.  

So, I guess you could say I have mixed feelings about it.  A big beautiful church doing lots for their own community.  They do lots for other people too.  I know they have big mission trips all over the world and provide programs for all sorts of people in need.  And in truth, I don’t know enough about the church to see what it really does for it’s outreach programs.  They do participate in soup kitchens and other community helping services I’m sure.  But for the sake of more people they could reach with their services, maybe they can cut back on the camels, sheep and donkeys for the Easter pageant or maybe sell that fog machine and give that money to a single mother on the other side of town.   

The thing is, church is not a bad thing.  It is a wonderful thing, actually.  I love many parts of it, especially the music, but maybe it’s gotten a little big.  It’s also not how much money you give to let someone else do good work for others or just paying for programs.  It’s being humble, giving of yourself and your time to help others and actually seeing the needy face to face.  

I don’t know why I decided to write about this.  I feel extremely guilty about it too.  I guess it just sort of bothers me when I am at church with my parents.  They are such good people and they are truly examples of people who live their lives (as Christians say) as an example of Christ.  They love their friends there and the community it gives them is wonderful.  And I love the music and spectacle of it all.  It is gorgeous and the music is brilliant.  But something doesn’t sit right with me.  Maybe it’s just never seeing a church in my life that is fully funded.

And I am no saint.  I don’t even go to church.  I went to 5th Ave Presbyterian until the preacher cheated on his wife with other female parishioners and got kicked out of the church.  His name was Dr. Tewell (pronounced Dr. TOOL), which I think is kinda perfect.  So, I can’t say I’m a practicing anything.  I just am a person who goes to church with their parents and sees something and says something.  So, hey big churches of the world… when you’ve got enough money and you can’t stop building on to the church, slow down.  Really look hard for the needy.  I know you are serving your community, but look out at the world that needs more help and help there.  I will still cry when I hear the hallelujah chorus, even if it doesn’t include professional soloists and paid musicians.  You still have the ability to bring people together and do good.  I just want you to do more… because you can. 

That being said, I gave ‘em my $5 bucks that Sunday.

So, I recently went home to Texas for the Thanksgiving holidays.  While I was home, I decided to A) get my hair done and B) go two stepping.  If you look down far enough, you can read a post I wrote a while ago about how much I miss two stepping.  After living in NYC for so long, this one simple thing I have obsessed about in my mind.  I reminisce about dancing when I was in high school.  I want to dance again.  I want to dance with a man who knows how to dance and I don’t have to teach him.  So, I took matters into my own hands and decided it was time to shit or get off the pot. I got my hair done and went to Billy Bob’s in Ft. Worth.

I told my parents where I was going, as it was a Saturday night and I was going out.  My Dad’s response was “You are going alone?”  I said, “Yes, but don’t worry… I’ll be careful.”  My mother’s response was, “Why don’t you call up ______, I’m sure they’d love to go so you don’t have to go by yourself.”  Well, I am not really close friends with _______, and it would be weird to just call them up and ask them to accompany me to Billy Bob’s when I haven’t spoken to them in a year.  So to their baffled and confused faces, I got the car keys and walked out to the car.  I said, “Don’t wait up.”  But somehow I was already feeling like I should be home at a reasonable hour and I was 18 again.

Now, I too shared the same feelings that my parents had.  I have never gone to a bar by myself, EVER.  And, I certainly hadn’t gone to a dance hall on a Saturday night by myself, EVER.  So, this was all a little nerve wracking for me too.  I knew I wanted to dance and this was the only way possible for me.  So, even if my pride might hurt a little from walking in alone, a single girl on her own… I didn’t care.  I needed to dance.  

I forgot my boots though, so I felt a little out of sorts.  I did have tall riding boots on, but I knew that would give me away as a tourist or outsider.  But, it was all I had and they were boots, so it would just have to do.  I wasn’t particularly dressed like a native, but I figured it would do.  Once someone saw me dance, they’d know I am a Texan… I’m sure of that!  Plus, I just got my hair cut and colored.  And even though I asked for “something subtle and no blond highlight streaks”  that’s what I got.  I guess the Texas interpretation of “please, no blond highlights” is “OK, so we’ll give you some blond highlights.”  That’s what I got, so I am somewhat dressed and Texas-fied to go out dancing.  

I finally arrive, park and head my way in to the back door of the club.  I am so clueless about the entrance, but I talk to a nice bouncer at the back door and he let’s me in.  I guess I got there early enough that I didn’t have to pay a cover.  Score!  This is gonna be a Texas cheap night.  I talk to this kid for a while and he seems like a sweet kid.  Tell him my story about being a Texan, living in NYC and I just want to dance and he listens.  He wishes me well, tells me he used to do theater in high school and now works at Billy Bob’s.  I wish him well and walk in.  It looks exactly the same, except it’s more empty than I remember.  The bar area was sparse, but people were dancing down below.  I had been here a number of times when I was in high school or college.  It was early and I think Saturday night isn’t the biggest night of the week but people WERE dancing.  I  immediately check out the dance floor.  The house band (who is pretty awesome) is playing and couples are spinning around the dance floor.  I’d say about 12 couples, just spinning, two-steppin’, twirling around the floor.  Just as I had remembered!!!!  This is exciting!  The band decides to take a break and lucky for me the rodeo is about to happen.  So, I’ll put dancing off for a few. And yes, I just said there was a rodeo about to happen.  

OK, so Billy Bob’s is a pretty huge place.  There is a dance floor, a concert area with hundreds of tables and then there is a huge arena for a live rodeo.  All under one roof!  It’s Texas sized for sure.  It’s huge!  So every weekend night, there is live rodeo.  Yep, real bulls and cowboys flying through the air.  So, I bought my ticket to the rodeo while I was waiting for the band to return to the dance floor.  It was a rodeo!  There were also serious rodeo people there to watch the rodeo.  For me, it seemed ironic and the people around me looked at me suspiciously as I was recording each cowboy’s introduction on my iPhone.  But hey, who cares?  I thought it was interesting.  For me though, I was cheering on the bulls.  I think the rodeo is a cruel thing, so if I had my balls all tied up, I’d be pissed too.  I think the bulls deserve a little love.  So, I cheer on the bulls quietly but I’m pretty sure at this point everyone around me thinks I am a PETA representative at this point or some sort of weird tourist who keeps saying, “poor baby” every time a bull gets in the stockade.  I get some pretty weird stares from the serious rodeo fans.  

Some of the cowboys were good and stayed on the bulls for a while.  No one hit 8 seconds, but there were some good rides.  There were some short rides too.  Those were some angry bulls and I’d say they won the night bucking those cowboys WAY UP into the air.  So with the rodeo over, my rodeo footage, I’m back to important matters at hand… dancing.

The band is back, and now there is a crew of young people hanging out in one corner of the dance floor.  I get a beer, as to fit in, but I don’t drink beer so I probably look stupid.  Now, I am just drinking a beer close to the cool group of young kids.  They were young, country-trashy and all knew each other well.  Perfect!  They would all switch up partners and dance around the floor, spinning, twirling and tossing the girls up into the air.  They were awesome at spins and definitely had some expertise.  This was the crowd to dance with.  The guys were good!  They all had girls equally good too.  No one noticed me standing oddly close to the group.  I knew it would be hard to get in on this but I waited patiently and hoped for the best.  But as waiting patiently does, it made me look like a weird single girl and therefore a magnet for weird single guys who also don’t fit in. 

I first met a nice trio of tubby Canadians there to “check it out.”  Two guys, one girl.  I couldn’t figure out if she was one of their girlfriends, but she stayed oddly quiet as they sort of hit on me.  They were in town on business and seemed really curious about the dance steps.  I explained it was a simple two step, triple step or a waltz that most people were doing depending on the song.  They just asked me questions about dance steps for about 20 minutes, but no one asked me to dance.  Just as I was finishing up that awkward conversation (as the dance teacher who doesn’t dance), I spotted the strangest thing.  Lesbians dancing… no wait, they don’t look like, wait… what is happening?  Why are these two frumpy older ladies dancing with each other and this crowd of racist/secessionists not booing them out of the joint.  As a matter of fact, no one even thought twice about it… except for me.  What does this say about me?  Then I remembered something from my past I had long forgotten… Ladies will often dance with each other when they don’t have a partner to show off the goods.  Plus, they just want to dance!  It’s like a signal to all the single guys at the bar to say, “hey, I didn’t come with a partner but I’m ready to dance and I’m hot to trot!”  I was still a little confused though.  I was thinking there for a moment, “did I come here on a gay night?”  That might explain why no men wanted to dance with me. 

Maybe this instinctual need to dance is not just me, maybe it is within all of us Texas ladies and that’s why we dance with each other.  We need to.  I continued to see this all night long, and now I’m seeing young, pretty girls dancing with each other.  But oddly enough, I was now worried that the only way I was going to dance was if a frumpy old lady asked me to dance.  

(with a thick Texas accent) “Excuse me ma’am, care to dance?” I was thrown off, because I was so busy staring at the young girls partnering on the dance floor. “”What?” “Would you like to dance?”  ”Sure!”  It was happening.  It took about 2 hours for someone to ask me, but it was happening!  His name was Chris and he didn’t care to talk much.  He was the real deal.  Hat, boots, accent and all.  He held me tight and that was the best part of the whole dance.  His arm around my waist, leading me and spinning me all over the dance floor. He was here alone too.  I awkwardly tried not to stumble over my feet, as I was getting used to the way he danced which was a little less straight forward than I remembered.  I stumbled a bit and he said “That was weird.”  I remember thinking, “that’s a strange thing for a cowboy to say” but I plugged on.  I thanked him for asking me to dance and apologized for my stumble.  He said “It don’t matter, if you are pretty.”  That was so sweet!  I thought I was pretty good, but I was probably just rusty.  He told me what he did for a living and where he’s from.  I told him what I did and where I lived… “actress from New York City.”  His response was a grimace and “oh no.”  I think he translated that as “I’m a liberal democrat living north of the Mason Dixon.”  That was the end of the dance and with an awkward, “thank you, maybe I’ll- we’ll, OK bye!”  I bid him well.  He continued to say unconvincingly, “maybe we’ll have another dance tonight.”  But I knew he was lying.  He figured out in a few words that I was a liberal from the North.  Oh well.  I’d been figured out.  

Went back to the wall where the tubby Canadians were hanging out.  One of them asked me to dance then after noticing my moves on the dance floor with Chris.  So, I showed him how to dance for a song and he seemed appreciative.  He seemed to be having a great time and the group of them was about as nice as could be.  He picked it up a little.  He said he was going to look it up online and learn about it, so he could be better prepared to dance next time they are in town.  I was glad to have some friends in the bar to talk to though, considering I had just blown my cover as a yankee.  Standing alone at a bar and not talking to anyone for 2 hours is tough on the ego.

Then, weirdness happened… two young guys started dancing together!  I thought for sure I was at gay night now.  But no.  It was two guys from the cool, young country-trashy group that were dancing together!  They were really good too.  One guy was throwing the other up into the air.  He’d be straddling the other guy too at some points.  Spins, twirls, dips, etc.  It was homoerotic, for sure.  They were so good that everybody in the bar was starring at them and cheering them on because they were so good.  I thought they were great, but here in this bar full of country folk, they were cheering on two men dancing.  I still can’t explain it.  I guess because they had been dancing with women all night, it was ok to dance with each other.  This was something I’d see in NYC, not Texas.  But people were loving it.  I was loving it.  And no one beat them up for it.  Wow!  

I went back to the bar for a coke.  That’s when I met a very drunk guy named Cort or something.  He was shit faced.  He said he’d been watching me for 2 hours.  He got a beer, dropped his credit card on the floor, bent down to get it, hit his head on the bar on the way up again and then asked me to dance with slurred speech.  I said yes.  

It was a tough dance, as he was so shitty drunk.  But he committed, even though his feet weren’t really doing as he wished them to.  He then asked for another dance and I begrudgingly agreed because I don’t know how to tell someone they are too drunk to dance.  So I kinda danced with him, but mostly just tried to keep him standing upright.  Everyone’s eyes were on me now.  The dance floor was basically just us.  Everyone around the outside of the dance floor just pitied me.  I could see it in their eyes.  I know people were looking at me all night, trying to figure me out.  I had either been teaching tourists to dance or dancing with drunk people mostly.  I was there by myself too and they all knew it.  When you stand around a dance floor for 3 hours, people can pretty much figure out your story by watching you and who you dance with all night.  I knew their stores too.  There’s the old couple who goes dancing every Saturday night, here’s the couple in matching clothes that loves to line dance, young country-trashy group of 20 somethings that all work at “Ducks Unlimited” by looking at their t shirts and the old guy that only dances with the old single ladies.   They knew my story too.  I didn’t fit in somehow.

But I got to dance.  It wasn’t exactly how I remembered it.  Maybe time has pushed me out of it.  Maybe I don’t belong there anymore.  But I somehow feel like I have it still.  I do belong.  I am rusty for sure, but I will go back.  I will dance more.  Next time, I’ll just try not to stick out so much.  Maybe I am the Yankee at the bar, so next time I’ll just go back with even worse highlights and wearing a “Let’s Secede” t shirt.  And if someone good asks me to dance, I won’t tell them where I’m from.