The Floridian Red Hat Dance
Ola! It’s been a while since I’ve had access to the internet. My aunt, who I was visiting in Florida for while, contends that the World Wide Web can, in fact, let others see through your monitor. So, since she lives in a one-room, senior living apartment, it left me with no place to fire up my laptop without the entire globe getting an eyeful of her ceramic kitten collectables.
I often spend Valentine’s Day with my late uncle’s wife in her little created community with what the brochure claims are “… like-minded retirees who embrace a spirited lifestyle.” And, if by “spirited” they meant weeks full of gossip and competitive one-up-manship, then they nailed it.
This usually isn’t a scene I enjoy, but one bright spot in the year was their annual Valentine’s Day dance – or at least it once was. Eight years ago, my aunt wrote (she also resists phones – tumors) and asked me to visit, enticing me with her famous bow knot cookies with lemon icing. I found out that even though the activities director strictly prohibited any contests, wagering or unofficial balloting at the event, trash talk among the golden girls was turning the Second Annual Sunny Times Valentine’s Day Dance into an unofficial dance contest.
My aunt knew that I had learned some ballroom dancing in preparation for cousin Adrian’s wedding (other side of the family). So, she thought she could bring me in to add some salsa to the party. When in competition, Italian women are not afraid to bring in a ringer.
I was caught off guard when I realized what was happening, but I figured it was harmless and put on a show that would forever be memorialized on the hallway bulletin board. She soaked up the glory for a year, and informed me two weeks prior to the third annual that Anita in 46C was bringing her insurance agent’s son, who was rumored to be an Olympic hopeful for the Salt Lake City games.
Against my will, I sharpened up my skills, pressed my tails and headed over. Thankfully, the skater was a no-show. Turns out that his insurance wouldn’t allow him to participate in non-training activities like this. Wouldn’t want to pull a hamstring.
So, our reign lasted one more year. However, beginning at the fourth annual, the hired guns have gotten younger and more agile, and I have gotten older and more distinguished (sore). Although I always felt a little uncomfortable about the ethics of this situation, I must admit I felt a little disappointed when I saw something on my way out the door that told me it was the end of the line.
On the counter near the phone was a plate of bow knot cookies with a note to Louis, the new maintenance guy in the village. Looks like it's time to pass the tango torch. I guess I should be happy with my successful run, and the opportunity to have a new dance partner. Maybe I’ll sign someone’s dance card in Missouri next year.
I often spend Valentine’s Day with my late uncle’s wife in her little created community with what the brochure claims are “… like-minded retirees who embrace a spirited lifestyle.” And, if by “spirited” they meant weeks full of gossip and competitive one-up-manship, then they nailed it.
This usually isn’t a scene I enjoy, but one bright spot in the year was their annual Valentine’s Day dance – or at least it once was. Eight years ago, my aunt wrote (she also resists phones – tumors) and asked me to visit, enticing me with her famous bow knot cookies with lemon icing. I found out that even though the activities director strictly prohibited any contests, wagering or unofficial balloting at the event, trash talk among the golden girls was turning the Second Annual Sunny Times Valentine’s Day Dance into an unofficial dance contest.
My aunt knew that I had learned some ballroom dancing in preparation for cousin Adrian’s wedding (other side of the family). So, she thought she could bring me in to add some salsa to the party. When in competition, Italian women are not afraid to bring in a ringer.
I was caught off guard when I realized what was happening, but I figured it was harmless and put on a show that would forever be memorialized on the hallway bulletin board. She soaked up the glory for a year, and informed me two weeks prior to the third annual that Anita in 46C was bringing her insurance agent’s son, who was rumored to be an Olympic hopeful for the Salt Lake City games.
Against my will, I sharpened up my skills, pressed my tails and headed over. Thankfully, the skater was a no-show. Turns out that his insurance wouldn’t allow him to participate in non-training activities like this. Wouldn’t want to pull a hamstring.
So, our reign lasted one more year. However, beginning at the fourth annual, the hired guns have gotten younger and more agile, and I have gotten older and more distinguished (sore). Although I always felt a little uncomfortable about the ethics of this situation, I must admit I felt a little disappointed when I saw something on my way out the door that told me it was the end of the line.
On the counter near the phone was a plate of bow knot cookies with a note to Louis, the new maintenance guy in the village. Looks like it's time to pass the tango torch. I guess I should be happy with my successful run, and the opportunity to have a new dance partner. Maybe I’ll sign someone’s dance card in Missouri next year.
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