[I] Don't Mean a Thing

Why won’t you dance with me? I know I’m American, but don’t worry, I’ve had all my shots. I won’t give you rabies. And no, George Bush was a person, not an infectious disease.

I’m standing alone in a crowded dance hall. The gibberish chatter pervades my eardrums. It blends into the music, marring an impressively remastered version of “Are You Hep to the Jive”. There are tables everywhere. None of them are empty of course. Not that I’d want to sit down. Being alone is less obvious when you are standing. Sitting with one’s own company at a table for four seems to boast “that’s right, I really DON’T have friends” just a little bit too loudly for my liking. I suppose it is conventional swing wisdom that, "if it ain't got that swing", it don't mean a thing. Well the music is jiving, and the room is jumping; so it seems I am the only one left without meaning.

All of a sudden I’m back in Seattle, leaning up against the wall at Blues Underground. Peggy Lee flirts with my ears as the dancers paint an enthralling display before me. Dim lighting and mirrors always make for an impressive, faceless, palate of bodies. I smile at the art they create, but I smile only slightly. Standing here, at my spot along the wall, with the slightly rusted water pipes pressing uncomfortably into my back, I feel somewhat voyeuristic watching everyone else. It’s as if I’m watching something I don’t deserve to see. Something I’m not a legitimate part of. As it were, a five dollar entrance fee and a smudged stamp on my wrist hardly make me a dancer. Later that night Andrew explains my predicament. He tells me that I’m the wallflower who, no matter how lovely, always ends up staying on the wall. He elaborates. You’re like that homeless person who everybody feels bad for but nobody gives money to. Thanks Andrew. I feel wildly better about myself.

Perhaps he was right. I certainly seem to be flowering upon the walls here in Germany. Most of my dancing has been composed of sidestepping waiters and quietly tapping my foot. But you know, I don’t much like the term wallflower. I know it is meant to imply that we are beautiful, despite our estrangement at the fringes of an otherwise social gathering. In this way, the term is a rather backhanded compliment. And yet, I feel the compliment is misplaced. Standing here, awkward and alone, I feel far from blossoming.