Yesterday was filled with amazing things in including a trip back into DI (Destination Imagination) performance memories, an accidental 9 mile bike ride, multiple failed attempts at cartwheels, and an incredible game of ultimate followed by a romp through the mud on the edge of the fields.  That was, however, where the fun tapered off and the frustration began. 

People act differently in different situations with different people.  When a women is not clear about what she wants (or doesn’t want) but just barely distances herself from the problem, the problem at hand is only temporarily fixed.  Putting a friend (or three) between yourself and a guy you don’t want around you (especially on the dance floor) is no way to get him to leave you alone for good.  “No, piss off you jerk” means no, but “I think I’ll just wiggle provocativelyjust slightly to the left over here still within your sight” means about nothing.  Well, in this case, it meant that one of those friends could be due for a punch up the bracket in one or two more “accidental” brushes of friend’s shoulder with erstwhile potential boyfriend’s face.

Now while I was neither the pick-setting friend nor the shifty dancer, I did happen to be the rather tired roommate allong for the outing.  We could have left the problem behind at any time by jumping right back into either my sporty little Saturn or even back into the dark and warm night, but the decision was up to the powers that be dancing, and not the one who owned the car.  Not quite sure how that worked.  I made it abundantly clear that I was not comfortable with the situation at all, especially with the possibility of a fight between a short Brit armed with a very blunt metal hitty stick carefully concealed in his pocket and a tall, most likely drunk, incredibly pissed off bar hopper.     

Despite all this, we did get out with no damage, no scars, and no police citations.  Which is good.  But that may be the last time I go “out” to “dance” in a year or two.