but . . .

"I am an all-powerful Amazon warrior / not just some sniveling girl."

These origami distractions notwithstanding, I have six thousand other (less salacious) things going on. And I am alright.

There are buds on my tree.

sacrificial at chess

This weekend was not at all what I expected. A roller coaster of emotional ups and downs, launched with a sold-out show Friday night, still bizarre at five am Sunday morning.

Against all odds, in a sea of eighty sipping cocktails, the G.I.Q. made it to my closing performance. He held me in earnest in the post-show receiving line. He bought me salmon and vino and a cheese plate at Pigalle to fête me—and to apologize for "being distant and uncommunicative" (his words, not mine). And he took me home, though he felt ill and overwhelmed and was "freaking out about us" again (also his words). This in spite of my feeble protests:

"I have to be at therapy at 10:30 am in Columbus Circle and I haven't shaved my legs."

"There are trains in the morning, you know. And I do have razor blades."

So there I went, gently into that good night. Granted, I did fall asleep listening to Tom Tales, and I do wonder if I'm not just warmth, books and dishwashing to this man, but details. I missed him. He is the meatloaf fantasy man of the sweater vest and spectacles. I see that now.

But what "us" entails, I still haven't a clue. So, imagine my discomfort when he called tonight at dinner to warn that he was "feeling weird" (and anxious and nervous) about "us." What is it about men that makes them assume they've the right to reject an offer you haven't made?

I have never asked him for "us." I have never asked him for anything. To the best of my knowledge, I've done a solid job of giving space, of stepping back, of leaving his campsite better than I found it. This, "I'm nervous about my ability to do this" makes my blood run passive aggressive through its vein rivers and intersections. Do what, D? I don't forgive all your radio silence the instant I see you only to be made constantly anxious by your anxiety. Don't they say a man who really wants to be with you will just be.with.you?

He did come to the milonga. We did dance. And he made no secret of sharing his beer or holding my hand between songs. Mais c'était tout. An hour or two of (actually quite wonderful) dancing to end the night (after two hours of averting his gaze and dancing with everyone and their lame-footed uncle). We left. He kissed me. Said he had shit to do in the morning. Said, and I quote, "Sorry to be weird. We'll just take it as it comes, no?" He put me in a cab and then: "I'll talk to you. Ciao."

And so there I was, speeding alone through the predawn streets of Manhattan, over my big, lonely bridge to my big, lonely apartment, wondering how I let things slip so far. I don't love the drama anymore. It is weakness, nothing more, that keeps me from confronting him. Not wanting to give up those bookish nights in the Bat Cave, those mornings of tangled sleep, the catch in my heartbeat when I cock an eyelash mid-tanda to see he has arrived on the floor.

In a bygone AP English report card, my beloved teacher once wrote, "Meg must learn not to suffer so under the pangs of uncertainty." Well, Mr. F, here I am, splashing in the lukewarm uncertainty of it all, my fingers pruny with it, waterlogged. Or did your advice have more to do with graceful extrication from the state of uncertainty? I've spent the better part of the last nine years trying to solve that riddle. Will I never learn?

Nothing to be done now but wonder.

but they ended up out sleeping in a doorway

There's something about being in a show that is profoundly lonely-making.

Maybe because my parents live in Florida and Georgia, respectively. And maybe because, given the nomadic nature of our caravan decade together, we didn't accumulate the kind of "base" of extended family and friends that most people drag to these sorts of things. I'm not complaining. It's hard to expect people you love to give up an hour, a cover fee and a two drink minimum as you hold them captive from a tiny cabaret stage in a Manhattan piano bar. It's just . . . you find yourself surprised by the strange assortment of people who inevitably turn up. Some people you would expect to be there without your having to badger them are not. Others you hardly know are beaming over their martinis in the front row.

I figure if you have five people to count on, you're doing alright. And I have that. So, the rest—the favorite coworker, the tango acquaintances—are gravy. Strange and special gravy.

Walking home through Times Square, abuzz with neon daylight at 10:30pm, I found myself saddened by my own self-sufficiency. Forbidden to go dancing by my (very practical) director and declining cocktail offers in favor of rest before a full 9-5 Friday, I went home on the subway to an empty apartment, made myself a simple single girl supper, snapped the windows shut against the pollen, and went to bed.

Today it is threatening to rain and I am blue, blue, blue. My grey cubby, dismally lit by fluorescent overheads, feels more like a prison cell than usual. The men in my life are quietly—notably—absent. (Dost thou notice a pattern?) I feel closer and more connected to the strangers I sang for last night than most other people in my life.

I'm sure this funk will abate in time for tonight, but right now the minutes are leaden and this workday may never end.

all over the place

Radio silence from the G.I.Q. and I am going haywire.

I am making big plans without you, sir. Shit is blooming everywhere and trains are barreling towards the station. When the right one comes, I'm leaping. Don't say you weren't warned.

Energies conspire. Sometimes the Universe aligns the flagstones for you. All you have to do is put one foot in front of you with commitment, and the frequencies will match up to carry you across.

Receive the lead and follow it.

It was an awfully selfish weekend, full of rehearsing and appointments and dancing. After Peter and I made brunch for his family (because any day that begins with eggs and champagne must be a good one), I spent a few hours sunning on a crowded patch of grass with Em, listening to the tango strains from the milonga on the pier, before committing the gravest act of sacrilege imaginable: going to Roko during the home opener.

I d-voed the game. I mean, come on, I wasn't going to miss that spectacular Youk-a-thon in a marathon creaming of the champion Yanks. But I didn't watch it live and, consequently, I'm a little bewildered. Maybe it was a pissy reaction to Non-Date's utter lack of interpersonal skills, his monumental failure to communicate. Maybe it was just a one-off whim.

I swear, I think my father almost disowned me.

And yet, I refuse to apologize. I reconnected with a good friend, scored a second tanda with The Whisperer and ended up with plans for focused practice. I smiled unabashedly at good leaders and . . . the Red Sox won!

Slowly, I come to grips with the fact that I have found my constant trump card. Very simply: I would rather be dancing.

rising

Groggy and tingly from last night, I wake to church bells. My little neighborhood is all about Easter, kids are in frilly outfits and shiny white shoes, and I open my window to the smell of blossoms and grilled meat.

I forgot about those church bells. Remember when I was so charmed by this place? Before the great Heatless Winter . . .

Anyway, today is hopeful (once I kick the headache). Damn the workaday world, less than 24 hours away. There is outdoor dancing to consider at the pier. There is the crossword. And there is baseball. Wonderful, wonderful baseball.

Spring is here at last. The snow scabbed world's reprieve. Our annual round of second chances.

witching hours

Buzzing from a three am brownie rush and a sweet, sweet tango high.

Man, those four hours of dancing passed like forty minutes. And as a reward, I suppose, for branching out, for going stag to an unknown milonga, I was blessed with lovely leaders. A whole night without a foot wound and, though imperfect, my dancing went somewhere. I was flying, I was alone in a room with a man I hardly knew (one at a time), I was closing my eyes to everything and everyone and wishing I could stay all night, dancing until I got better, until the world made sense.

But I came home—in a cab that nearly broke the sound barrier—and now I tuck myself in to the sound of confused birds tweeting away in the dark.

Buona Pasqua a tutti . . .

thursday, april first

In which our heroine bought herself a new pair of tango shoes and admired the blossoms that smell more like sperm than flowers.

In which the April Fools' crossword was conquered.

In which there was dancing and an epic twist of plot.