Just Dance, Gonna Be OK

Do you know what contact improvisation is? If you do, you probably paid a lot of money like I did for a degree that turned out to be more of a suggestion.

Contact improvisation is a dance technique where two people (or more if you're into that) use a point of physical contact to launch an exploration of movement between their bodies, keeping at least one point of contact the entire time. Here's a link to the Wikipedia article if you really hate your life: SELF-LOATHING.

It's really big in the postmodern dance world, and as I found out last night, equally big between The Boy in the Glasses and his new boyfriend.

Huge disclaimer: I am likely lashing out due to years of bitterness for starting off my relationship with The Boy in the Glasses by puking, crying, and proclaiming his gayness in an attempt to prematurely rip him from the closet. Hey, I was 19 and thought everybody should want to sleep with me. In retrospect, I should have drank less (or at least not cried so much).

But I blog about this guy every now and then, and for some surely dark reason, he's become an unshakable story arch in my existential existence. We've never even had a romantic relationship. Sure, maybe we watched Easy A together in the bed of a drunk girl and made out a bit, but that's just because the movie is so flawless you can't help but be aroused. Beyond that, I mostly just sit in awe of how many people admire him EVEN THOUGH he has an ear piercing.

Cartilage.

Oh, I know.

So when we were at drinks and he asked, "Do you want to meet my boyfriend?" I froze every muscle in my face as fast as I could and squealed, "Oh my GAHD, YES!"

And his new boyfriend really admires him. So much so that I don't think there was a second when their pinkies weren't at least hooked. I was stuck conversing with some kid who went to Chapman (I don't know what or where that is, but the way the conversation went, it's for kids who didn't get into Brown) and had to hear all about his new found career working for a chocolatier.

A chocolatier, you guys. Because being a pastry chef just doesn't cut it.

So I'm listening to a one-man debate on cocoa paste versus real cocoa beans (don't ask, I didn't) while in the corner of my eye, I'm watching this weird contact improv being expertly executed while each sips a drink. I would have called them out on it, but the boyfriend already had a resting face of "the f*ck did you just say?!" and I did not want to exacerbate that gaze. Instead, I appreciated the beer that was purchased for me and ordered a Lyft from the bathroom.

On my way home, I listened to my driver tell me about the restaurant he lost in Fresno, struggling to support his three children, and the story of a homeless man he drove to the Santa Monica Pier pro bono in a weird tale of "we all have hard times," and I reflected on my hard times.

I realized that I have yet to watch my life truly crash and burn, and while I have faith that someday I will be lucky enough to have Grace to fall from, if the worst I have to do is watch an ex-crush be happy in full body contact with another man, well...

I'll just stay home more.

'Tis the season,

TJB: Making It