Funboy and the Golden Sneakers

About a month ago I started taking a class at this cute little dance studio one town over. I wasn't sure what to expect, but I've really enjoyed it so far. Each class is different, so if I have to miss one for an assignment, I don't have to worry about catching up on what I missed.

The classes are being held at the local YMCA over the summer while the new studio is being renovated. So last night I strolled into the Y for my first class there and asked a woman at the front desk to point me in the right direction.

Before she could finish pointing out which way to go, a young man, who I swear materialized out of nowhere beside me, shouted "I'll show her!" and bounded toward the stairs like a puppy, looking back to see if I followed.

As we chatted on our way up the stairs, It became clear that he was maybe a little developmentally delayed.

As soon as the music started, it also became clear that he is, without a doubt the most joyful dancer I have ever seen. Although he wasn't necessarily getting the steps down, he was damn sure moving and grooving.

Now, I always enjoy the dance class. I feel fairly energetic and by the end I've usually loosened up enough to really let myself go and enjoy.

This class was different. it was like he stepped in and gave us all permission to relax and laugh and have a little more fun. His enthusiasm was just so infectious.

Every time there was a lull in the music, all you could hear was "bahTAH ba ba!" as he scatted along, with the occasional "Yahoo!" thrown in for good measure. I had to give up on suppressing the giggles that were almost constantly bubbling up happily from my stomach, and when our eyes met in the mirror, he just laughed right along with me.

It was like someone came into the room and set up a bubble machine or upturned a box of fuzzy, playful kittens. Sure it was just this side of ridiculous, but you'd have been hard pressed not to feel just a little delighted.

And then, just when I thought I couldn't be any more entertained, I glanced over during our water break to see him reach into his little backpack and pull out, not a water bottle, but a pair of gold shoes.

He sauntered proudly over, looking at me, and down at his shoes. "What do you think of my shoes?" he asked.

"I think your shoes are amazing!" I replied.

"Yeah, they used to be my school gym sneakers" He shot me a look like, can you believe it? "But I spray painted them gold."

"Well they look great!" I smiled.

"Yeah, my nickname's Funboy. And I sell t-shirts."

Funboy.

For a second, the universe made sense.

Teenage wasteland

I've covered a myriad of events during my 10 or so months at this little paper: horse races, crop circles, General Romeo Dallaire's visit(can you say, awesome?), rummage sales, book launches, and eighteen billion Christmas concerts. And last week, for the first time since approximately 2001, I was given the shining opportunity (read: non-negotiable order) to attend, of all things, a high school dance.

Walking up to the front doors guarded by rent-a-cops, I had to suppress a reflex to check my camera bag for any suspect "water" bottles that might be confiscated, despite the fact that I don't think I was ever actually the one smuggling vodka into the dances (I mean, I don't know and would not associate with anyone who did that, mom).

But man, did we love our high school dances. There is nothing quite like putting on the maximum of makeup and the minimum of clothing you can smuggle yourself out of the house in to dive headfirst into all the ridiculous romance and drama and general hormonal insanity and bad behaviour that was somewhat held in check during the day (or at least broken up somewhat by classes).

Getting ready for the dance at age 23 was a little different, "Ugh, you mean I can't change into my sweatpants until at least 9:30? Why is my life so stupid??!!!" (There may still be some of that hormonal insanity lingering in my system yet, come to think of it.) I always kind of dread high school assignments. It seems I'm still young enough to be judged by/mistaken for a teenage mutant high school girl. Which is funny considering that I was often mistaken for an adult during my high school days. And as much as I'd like to think I'm impervious to it, a collective death stare from a group of teen girls is still a powerful thing. Plus it always brings back the lingering doubt that maybe, just maybe, my friends and I weren't as cool and non-annoying as I like to think we were.

Anyway, I was not looking forward to skulking around and blinding underage, underdressed girls and the guys desperate to sleep with them. I couldn't help but cringe at the thought of witnessing any of the behaviour I can still (unfortunately) so vividly recall.

So it was a pleasant surprise upon arriving to be directed by a bored looking law officer to the outdoor courtyard where the dear things were bundled up in winter gear too heavy to allow for any kid of effective groping while they bopped around the yard. None of them were even visibly intoxicated!

It turns out the dance was a fundraiser for a memorial garden, so maybe that had something to do with the squeaky clean behaviour, I don't know. But it made for a surprisingly pain-free assignment. Maybe those gosh darn whippersnappers aren't so bad after all. I mean, we were awesome, so it's possible, right?

Now I can go back to dreading council meetings.

Cinderella

Once upon a time there was a young woman who spent her days slaving away over a newspaper in a hamlet in rural Canada. Plagued by cruel deadlines and evilly dull events, she longed for an escape. Finally, one day her fairy editor paid her a visit and granted her wish.

So off she went to the big glittering city for a weekend with one of her very best girls. They whiled away the day, chatting and laughing and eating at the newspaper girl's favourite falafel place until it was time to pick up coatracks for the ball.

Then it was back home to sprinkle on some glamour, transform into pretty, pretty princesses and run like maniacs in heels to catch the mystical carriage on wires to the ballroom for the magazine launch/formal.

And then there was dancing, dancing, dancing. The princesses, who were joined by their favourite ballerina quickly discovered their dance cards -yes, there were really dance cards - were full, and they spent the evening being whirled around the dance floor by prince after prince, none of who were the least bit gropey or disgusting.

The newspaper princess did lose a shoe at one point, but quickly retrieved it herself. Unfortunately, she also misplaced a lipstick and a box of smarties. An acceptable loss, anyway.

In the wee hours of the morning, the princesses and the ballerina returned home to massage each other's feet and laugh about the evening's many adventures before tumbling exhausted and happy into bed.

The next day, the princess hung up her tiara and went back to work, but the enchantment of the evening left a smile on her face that would last for weeks to come.

Dirty Dancing

Last week an article about a young man who has blogged some helpful hints for women who might be considering something crazy like going out dancing in mixed company, to avoid getting raped in the process, was featured on Jezebel.com.

The helpful hinter likens women getting up close and personal with men on the dance floor and later refusing to have sex to a store advertising a sale, but then hiking the prices up instead, saying, "It would almost make you want to say "screw this" and rob the store to get your promised discount, wouldn't it?"
Um, no?

After recovering from the anger stroke caused by reading this and other choice quotes, I was reminded of an issue that has been on my mind for some time.

I LOVE to put on something pretty and go out dancing with my friends. I do NOT love being groped by strangers. And despite my best efforts to discourage this kind of behaviour, it seems the two are mutually exclusive.

There is inevitably some guy who thinks it's perfectly ok to approach me by sidling his groin up to me from behind. It's as if, by walking in off the street, we are agreeing to throw away all rules of acceptable conduct. Most people would agree that a stranger approaching them on the sidewalk, genitals first, should result in some kind of legal repercussions, or at least a swift kick.

And yet, once inside a bar or club, many young women I know claim they "don't want to be rude" by firmly telling a guy to please back the hell off, immediately. And, if a guy is deemed attractive enough, (provided she actually gets a look at him), a lot of women actually seem happy to oblige in dry humping to the music.

I guess this is part of the reason why many guys seem genuinely confused when I'm not willing to treat them like a human striptease pole. However, just because some women respond positively to this sleazy approach, is no reason to assume that all women will.

My boyfriend points out that most of these situations go hand in hand with alcohol consumption, and that most guys wouldn't make a move like that while sober. But I feel like, if it were firmly imprinted on their brains that this is not a respectful or acceptable way to treat a woman, it shouldn't matter.

Maybe I just don't watch enough music videos.

Or maybe I just need to accept this behaviour as one of those things I just don't get and stick to swing dancing with the elderly.