Kimberly, Janelle, and I went swing dancing last night. It's the first time I've been in over three months! I felt so rusty. Janelle and I were quite hesitant to ask people to dance at first, because I always feel like you owe someone a good dance if you ask them. Which is totally not true, but that's just how my crazy, paranoid mind works.
At the venue we saw things guy who vaguely resembled our friend Mikko, but when we danced with him, we found out his name was Brandon. (Another friend of ours is named Brandon, and he's actually had a long-standing crush on Mikko.) We literally cackled. Because we are mature, rational people.
Kimberly told me that when she was in Paris, she found a stretch along the Seine where people would swing dance every Sunday. My jaw practically dropped when she told me this. It's as though all my romantic illusions have come true. Some want to go to Paris to see the Eiffel Tower or the Mona Lisa or the Arc D'Whatever; I want to go for the swing dancing.
And I just wanted to say how proud I am of myself for this post's title. I think it's possibly the cleverest one I've ever written. Which says something really sad about me, if you think about it.