If tango has given me anything, it has given me the ability to take a suck-ass Saturday night and end it with dancing—just by showing up at a milonga. Tango is the perfect place to retreat, where in spite of the obligatory small talk one is allowed to shut ones eyes and say nothing for minutes at a time and let the hours go by.
And so concludes a horribly blue weekend: one spent ducking the gale force winds and getting rained on, suffering from a lack of communication with a man I fear isn't good for me and spending a lot of sad time by myself. I suppose everyone needs one of these humbling failures every once in a while, but it makes the return to the workweek almost unbearable.
"What did you do this weekend?"
"Wallow in self-pity."
See? Right there. No way to start a Monday.
Meanwhile, I am angry. Angry at my landlord for being incompetent, angry at Peter Pan for drinking, angry at myself for allowing a lack of attention from the gentlemen quarter plague me, and angry at the weather for adding insult to injury, for heaping miseries onto an otherwise miserable weekend and for making it very difficult to sleep.
It is gray outside—almost oppressively so. The wind has stilled and the rain is on hiatus, but I expect it all to come crashing back the minute I try to go outside. But go outside I will, because there is more dancing to be done. And even though (this weekend anyway) tango has become a solitary activity, I am counting on it to keep me going.
And so concludes a horribly blue weekend: one spent ducking the gale force winds and getting rained on, suffering from a lack of communication with a man I fear isn't good for me and spending a lot of sad time by myself. I suppose everyone needs one of these humbling failures every once in a while, but it makes the return to the workweek almost unbearable.
"What did you do this weekend?"
"Wallow in self-pity."
See? Right there. No way to start a Monday.
Meanwhile, I am angry. Angry at my landlord for being incompetent, angry at Peter Pan for drinking, angry at myself for allowing a lack of attention from the gentlemen quarter plague me, and angry at the weather for adding insult to injury, for heaping miseries onto an otherwise miserable weekend and for making it very difficult to sleep.
It is gray outside—almost oppressively so. The wind has stilled and the rain is on hiatus, but I expect it all to come crashing back the minute I try to go outside. But go outside I will, because there is more dancing to be done. And even though (this weekend anyway) tango has become a solitary activity, I am counting on it to keep me going.
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3 comments:
you need to get laid
No heat/hot water -- no rent. And get a real room mate!
you are making the choice to wallow. get thee over yourself, buck up, kick ass and take names. you have no excuse for this.
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