After two months of bands that played too slow or too fast or too little swing-able music, the band last night was more than a relief. It was a heady ebb and swell that transported us all beyond our every-day thoughts and habits. Under its spell, good dancers became inspired dancers, mediocre dancers executed moves with confidence and general success, mistakes brought on laughter and good natured teasing rather than frustration, and few of us sat out more than a handful of dances.

I had the worst dance of my life (which was unremarkable simply because the guy had no sense of rhythm, no movies, and no compunction about running me into other dancers), and the weirdest (which will probably have to be a blog post in itself, but which included extended and condescending verbal instructions about what I should do and where I should look). But these were only two in a string of dances that spanned more than three hours, a span which also included the best dances I’ve ever had. These two shrank into insignificance as new partners spun and dipped me, friends laughed and lip-synched “Hey, Mister Shane,” and the band played on and on. And my pride, stung at the being tutored in moves I should have performed if only I had understood (nonexistent) leads, was soothed as the next three partners whirled me intricately, flawlessly, and directly in front of the offending party as he watched in rapt attention. Revenge was sweet.

p.s. A couple of pictures are up on Flickr, now.