March or dance? Dance or march? A good R & B band was playing at a winery 45 minutes away, maybe for the last time before rainy season. Of course, marching would be fun, seeing all the signs and costumes, being part of history, and the weather was going to be fabulous, sunny skies and 80 degrees.
But the dancing was calling me. No one wanted to go with me or was out of town. Was I brave enough to go alone? I could practice my chorus songs on the long drive there. I’d have to pay the $8 bridge toll by myself, but whatever.
As the morning progressed, I was more determined to go dancing. I was doing chores and answering teacup questions online, walking dogs and playing ball with them, getting my list done.
By the time I decided to go, it was now or never. I grabbed my black boots from the closet, the old pair with the treads worn down, better on a plastic dance floor. The winery held the music events in the back yard of a Victorian mansion, with a covered stage and a covered dance floor.
As I waited at the stoplight right before the freeway entrance, I realized I had the new left boot. What if I had two left boots? I reached over to the passenger seat. Nope, I had a right one and a left one, mismatched but both black.
I got on the freeway and realized I hadn’t bought my ticket online. That meant it would cost me an extra $5 to buy it at the door. Then I looked down at the gas gauge, only 115 miles left before I was out of gas (that’s how the Prius does it instead of showing how empty the tank is, since it’s a hybrid). Surely I could get to Vallejo and back with that much gas.
I am a planner, not a fly by the seat of your pants kind of gal, but today, I was flying, mismatched boots, no ticket, not much gas, no friends meeting me there, but I was determined to have some fun after the stresses of the week.
I got there and the place was packed. I had to park two blocks away and walked in right at 1:00. The music hadn’t started yet. Would I know anyone? The tables were packed with groups of people celebrating birthdays, metal buckets keeping white wine and champagne cold, upside down wine glasses on a tray. I walked down the sidewalk and then saw a familiar profile, a guy in a purple hat, purple shorts, purple shirt and purple Zumba shoes. The dancing king, the guy that everyone knows, El was there. That meant Linda was there, too, and before long, he was pointing me to his cruise club sitting around a card table behind the big willow tree, where people who got there late sat since all the tables were gone.
I found two folding chairs and chatted with Linda, who had turned her ankle hours before on a dog walk. I put my stuff on one chair, including my better jeans that were still drying. I would change into them later.
Only that never happened. I danced and danced, by myself, with El, with others, old and young, couples and singles. No one cared. The dance floor was roomy for the first set, not roomy for the 2nd set and downright tight for the 3rd set.
During the break, I talked with Linda and learned about her childhood and her kid. I asked El how many pairs of Zumba shoes he had, and believe me, nobody has more than he does.
I was starving and tired on the way home. I listened to the radio, flipping between three channels, always looking for the best song. I’d had three hours of best songs, but I wanted more.
The rest of the night I was worthless.
I slept like a baby. Three hours of dancing will do that.
FIRST DATE, WORST DATE EVER! 