Swing Your Partner

I have another gem of wisdom to share. It's of the 'Red means STOP' variety. Ready? Never spray gasoline on your face. It smells bad, it tastes worse, and it kind of burns on contact. Don't do it.

We went to the Old Farmer's Ball last night. It's a huge contra dance in Asheville, which is a bit of a drive, but worth it. They used to hold it at the gym, but the roof came down a week ago so for now it's in the pavilion.

This was a pro because there were twinkle lights in the rafters, and the lack of walls made for excellent airflow. A few overheated contra dances have proven the value of this little pro, and removed any aspersions I may have cast upon Jane Austen's heroines for becoming 'faint'; it had nothing to do with the corsets. There were only two lonely cons: the pavilion was octagonal, which made it hard to keep our lines straight, and roundness of the space made it difficult to spot. ('spot' in this case refers to the dancing technique of picking a focal point in the room during spins to prevent dizziness)

This was, by far, the most eclectic bunch of dancers I've ever stumbled upon. You've got your clean hippies-because-they-just-like-the-clothes (like me), dirty hippies-because-they-despise-civilization, funky college students, classy old people, and an unexpected smattering of friendly goths. In particular there was a dude in a fishnet shirt and barely intact jeans, and a gal in pink hair and a studded collar.

The band was very good, and I got asked up for at least half the dances (which was nice), and I never had to dance the guy's part (which was of inestimable value). I wouldn't have cared to try the latter trick in this company because you have to have your wits about you to dance the guy's part, and these are by far the best lot of dancers I've met. They saunter, they sway, and all the guys throw in spin after spin as if there's no tomorrow.

My sisters' friend Luke, whose invitation was the reason for our presence, was particularly talented (read: dangerous) in this respect. To make it worse, when spinning as a couple it's important to spot by making eye-contact. After the first two spins, I announced I was getting a crick in my neck and would need to spot using the star in the middle of his t-shirt, since that's what was on my eye level.

Most of the guys seem to view it as a challenge -- see who can spin their lady the most often and in the oddest places. By the end of the night I wasn't even sure I remembered how to do a ladies' chain without spinning twice on the courtesy turn. I really don't mind -- it's actually a lot of fun! -- so long as the gentleman in question is also taking on all responsibility for getting you where you need to go and whispering the next step in your ear. Otherwise the whole dance goes straight to pot for both of you, because after dancing the first three sets on 'spin mode', I barely know what line I'm in, let alone where my partner is.

By the end of the night, breeze or no breeze, everyone was sweating profusely. But that just shows up what I love about contra dancing: we don't really have to have anything in common beyond this. We're here, we're having fun, and nobody cares.

It was nearly midnight when we headed home, and I stopped off for gas. You know how they have those little latch things that keep the gas pumping without making you stand there and hold the nozzle? And you know how when you reach the gas limit, the pump automatically shuts down whether you release the nozzle or not? Best guess: the last customer hit the limit and innocently put the nozzle back without releasing the latch thingy. Let's just say it was that and not a prank.

Innocence or malice-aforethought aside, I removed the nozzle, hit the button for 'Premium', and the gas started gushing out with the nozzle still a foot away from the car. It sort of rebounded off the car and sprayed all over my shirt, skirt, shoes, and the lower half of my face before I finally got it slotted into the car. Unfortunately all the Wet Ones in the car had turned into Dry Ones over the recent months, and the gas station store was closed. Fortunately my glasses protected my eyes from the spatter and Katy had a spare over-shirt I could change into at the Citco, which was still open.

Between exhaustion, overheating, hilarity, caffiene, and the fumes, we had a jolly trip home!

Moral of the story? Contra dancing rocks, weird people are fun, and alwaysalwaysALWAYS disengage the latch-thingy on the gas nozzle when you're done pumping gas.

Oh, and don't dry clothing until you're absolutely sure there's no gasoline left on it, because it says on all the stain-removal websites that the fumes can ignite and blow your dryer to Pokipsy.

Cheers!