So it's 7:05 and I throw on a jean skirt and my token vintage sweater and drive like mad through country roads and mistaken directions and finally arrive at a little place tucked in the woods that has kept retro in style and lightheardedness alive.

Ha. I wish that's how last went. I went to swing dance advertised in an email newsletter I get from a local dance studio. I was going alone to check it out; one of the instructors I'd called said there are usually enough single people there to find someone to dance with. However, when I got there, I found that wasn't quite the case. "Yeah, there's a broad mix of ages" he said. "Some in their 50's, 40's, 30's and 20's. Sometimes some highschool students show up," he said. Riiiight.

So it's 7:05 and I throw on a jean skirt and my token vintage sweater and drive like mad through country roads and mistaken directions and arrive at.... the Moose Lodge.

Ok..I thought. I've gone to swing dances at KC halls before, and they've been awesome. So I go inside and an elderly lady takes my money and says... "You know, dear... there probably won't be a dance partner for you..." Oh. Lovely. I look at the floor. There's one young couple on the floor; they look like they're practicing for their wedding dance. The only person under the age of 60 is a woman sitting alone at a table. "Well," I say, "I'm here. Maybe more people will come." And I go sit down. The other woman looks at me with desperate eyes. "There are no single people here, and the couples won't switch. Do you know any guys you can call?"

So, I get on the phone, make a couple calls, and no dice. Fortuntely, some of the older wives graciously let us borrow their husbands for a few spins. My hands still smell like Old Spice and Aspercreme.

Overall, it wasn't too bad. I learned one or two new steps, made myself sound desperate for companionship to my male friends, and got to shuffle around the floor once or twice to the slowest swing I've ever heard. Gotta compensate for the arthritic hips, I suppose. But, one guy gave me a ride on his wheelchair/scooter. I guess he's some big-shot retired investor. And you know what that means... That's right... someone's getting free prune juice when she visits the old folks home.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I have an afgan to finish. It gets so drafty in here, you know.