Let's Dance...

Back by popular demand, this is a blog about me being awkward.

After our game on Saturday, my teammates and I decided to go dancing. I need to preface this story by painting a picture of what it means to go ‘dancing’ in Europe. First of all, you don’t actually leave to go out until 1:30am, and even that is early. Just like you never want to be the first guest to arrive at a party, a 2am club arrival is borderline inappropriate. Now for those of you who know me, you know that 2am is bed time. Back at home, 2am is actually, “I’ve already been asleep for three hours what do you want from me?” time. But because of the time difference, I do tend to stay up later when I’m in Europe. Even so, 2am is still “I’m in bed snuggling under my blankets” time.

That being said, this Saturday I decided that I was going to fully commit to the night. I was going to embrace the fact that I was going to get home really late and be really tired. I committed to the night with every intention of sleeping until noon the next day.  

As 2am rolled around and we rolled up to the club, I was in a pretty good mood and ready to dance. After about two hours of dancing and witnessing a small altercation, the music changed from fast group dancing to a slower, more intimate selection. Now, prior to going out, one of my teammates mentioned that her very tall guy friend was going to be visiting to see our game and coming out with us afterwards. After showing me his picture and getting a solid seal of approval, all my teammates were very excited to see how I might interact with a boy (let’s face it, basketball teams are great - the camaraderie, the friendship, but sometimes you miss being around members of the opposite sex). As the music changed, my teammate came over and told me her friend would like to dance.

I hope you’re ready for this.

I like to dance, I really do. I didn’t when I was young. During those rough teenage years dances were tough on me – I was so much taller than everyone else that I was overly conscious of what I might look like on a dance floor that I forgot to just enjoy the music. I like to think I do a much better job of that now. Of course it helps that because I’m part of a basketball team, now when I go dancing, I constantly have tall people around me and no longer have a hard time letting loose on the dance floor.  

Here’s the catch: I don’t usually slow dance with my teammates. In my 24 years, the times I have slow danced with my friends, boyfriends, or sister, I have always been the same height as, or taller, than my partner. So, as I approached this 6’10-7’ boy to dance with, I immediately started thinking, ‘Oh my God, where do I put my hands?’ ‘Where do I put my head?’ ‘Holy crap, his hips come up to my stomach.’ ‘How is this going to work?’

Thank goodness that poor boy a) did not speak English and b) didn’t seem to notice me giggling to myself. For a whole song I stiffly kept my hands on his hips. Then, one hand moved up to his left shoulder, the other stayed glued to his side. I tried putting both hands on his shoulders, but that just seemed too uncomfortably high of a reach (Is this how most girls feel when they’re dancing with a guy?). Finally, and judge me if you want, I found the most comfortable spot for my hands were up on the outside of his biceps (not a bad resting spot for the obvious athlete ;)).

After about five songs of my struggling to be led (let’s face it, I have some control issues that transfer to the dance floor), struggling to be tall enough for our hips to line up (seriously – IS this what it feels like to be an average sized girl?), and struggling to find an appropriate spot for my arms and head, my teammates called me over and were ready to head home.

So by 5am, I had conquered a new first (dancing with someone taller than me). When I got home I snuggled into my bed, and let the droning sound left ringing in my ears from the club music sing me to sleep.