Important Lessons Discerned From A Lifetime Of Awkward Slow Dances.

The year was 1994. I was still at that wonderful point in my life where a boy putting his hands on my waist was enough to leave me loopy for days. Boyz II Men came on the PA system in the school gym, and the boy I liked came over and took my hand out into the dance floor. As we swayed closer together, he whispered in my ear that he had personally requested this song, just for me. I backed my tiny little 12-year-old body away from him, and didn't speak to him for the rest of the year.

Life Lesson: Nobody should be "making love" in junior high. Not even the teachers. Nobody. 

 In the summers that I worked for the boys' camp, a strong highlight was the twice-per-session "socials" the boys would have with the girls' camp across the lake. There is a certain energy when you throw a bunch of children into a room, and put them into semi-romantic situations. It is not something that, as adults, we experience often, as years of hurt and anger and cynicism make us lose our youthful hopefulness and sense of whimsy. Standing on the sidelines of these dances, watching juveniles wave back and forth with each other, you would sometimes notice the boy mouthing the words along to this song, behind the girl's back. It was awkward to watch, but in that moment, in that boy's head, he could have been that girl's hero, baby. He could take away her pain. He would stand by her forever (or until the next social, at least).

Lesson Learned: Maybe, just maybe, even if just for a fleeting moment, you actually are somebody's hero. 

Boy/girl parties started happening in late elementary school. Somebody's parents would agree to buy giant bags of Cheetos and Funyuns, a couple of 2-litres of Mountain Dew, and to totally ignore a party full of pre-pubescent horn-dogs for a few hours. These parties were an adventurous, albeit awkward, forage into our experimental years. There were many games of "7 Minutes In Heaven", where you would just stand in the closet, next to the guy that chose you, and stare off into space, waiting for the clock to count down. We would play truth or dare, with very little to tell the truth about, and very little dignity to lose during a dare. Most importantly, though, were the times when someone would turn down the lights, turn off Rap Traxx 5, and turn up a slow jam. We would wander into the middle of the room, joining sweaty hands and trying to ignore the flight of butterflies in our stomachs. "Rush. Rush.", Paula Abdul would croon, and even then, in a pimply pre-teen's arms, I was all too aware that she was singing of a love that I would not know until I was in my early twenties.
Lesson Learned: No need to rush, rush anything. 

I nervously waited outside the doors of the gym for the first dance of my high school career. I had a crush on almost every boy in the school, and I just knew that someone was about to sweep me off my feet as this song narrated in the background. It, I had decided, was inevitable. I had watched movies about high school all my life, and I knew how these things worked. I was about to fall it love. I just knew it. Just as I got a strong wind of courage to careen me into the dance, the doors flew open, and two students, stabbing at each other with machetes, rolled into the parking lot. I didn't ever make it through the doors of that dance, nor did the school ever hold another dance in the three years before I graduated.

Lesson Learned: Be careful with weapons.

I was in the snowy back lot of Rollerland, applying opaque raspberry-colored lipstick over and over again. My skates hung around my shoulders, and a plaid shirt tied around my waist. My parents were late picking me up, but my mind was too flooded with fluttery teenage feelings and confusion to care. A boy who I had admired from afar for ages had grabbed me up off of the bench during the last slow-jam of the afternoon, which just happened to be a particularly soulful version of 'Silent Night'. He looked into my eyes as he whisked me around the rink, and my heart was beating out of my chest. That is, until, he started to sing the song directly to my face. The tingling in my body stopped cold. Here I was skate-dancing around the rink with my dream-guy, who not only had a perfect Jonathan Taylor Thomas haircut, but could also skate backwards with the greatest of ease, plus he had entwined his fingers into the belt-loops on my fucking overalls. However, the thought of my young dream-guy also being super seriously into holiday caroling had my little brain feeling very doubtful for our future. Next time he asked me to skate, I pretended I didn't hear.
Lesson Learned: Never settle. 

~sarah p.