I went dancing last night and it should have been a lovely evening, but it was so disappointing and the very reason I left tango before. Maybe, I need a new gig. Salsa is usually fun. Maybe, I’ll take up golf.
Women preparing to go to a fancy dance:
Shop for a pretty new dress, dry clean an old one, buy new makeup to match new outfit–stockings, jewelry, shoes, purse, wrap/coat too. Iron, bathe, shave legs, wash hair, lotion, powder, pedicure, manicure, make-up, blow dry, spray, tousle, style, last touches on makeup then stockings, bra, slip, dress, adjust everything, heels, jewelry, earrings, perfume, stock purse–mints, money, lipstick. Don’t forget hostess gift–wine, present, food, etc.
What most men do to go to a fancy dance: Shower, maybe. Put on clean clothes, maybe, go.
What women do at the fancy dance: smile, be congenial, make ridiculously small talk, smile some more then wait as patiently as humanly possible for a man to ask her to dance. Wait some more.
What most men do at the fancy dance: dance as often as they like with any number of a plethora of waiting women, or non of them at all, eat, drink, ignore the plethora of beautiful waiting women.
What women end up doing when the waiting becomes so internally dreadful their own heart may truly break for all the preparation they’ve done and for the lack of notice they’ve received: walk, sneak out, try not to run for the door, holding their heads as high as humanly possible for how horrible they feel, drive home in tears vowing never to return again or to let themselves be foolishly swept away with hope and possibility.
What men end up doing when the dancing becomes exhausting, their bellies full, they go home drunk and happy, sleep soundly, vowing to return again and again because this is the sweetest deal they’ve ever come across: beautiful waiting women–younger women, even!–dancing with them, old stodgy coots, because they’re it at this gig! No younger men to compete with, few men at all! What a find! Little input, huge return! What a score!