01 September 2010

Tiny Dancer, Part II

Where is the humor?

Ok, my bad! My writing associate didn't see the humor in my last post about Tiny Dancer. It was supposed to be tender and endearing. Lest I remind you, this blog is also about the good. Not to say there wasn't any awkwardness involved with him.

I dated Tiny Dancer for about a year. Circumstances were such that after my summer in Philly, I came back home to NYC to pursue my career because Philly just had nothing for me. And as I made my way up north, TD slipped on his pointe shoes and pirouetted back south. It was a difficult relationship: some weekends consisted of him coming up to the area; others were me visiting him at his parents house in the suburbs of Philly; yet others we sometimes didn't get to see each other.

Half way into our relationship, there was one weekend where I wanted to talk to him about "where we were going." Oh, yes: the talk. Don't get me wrong; I cared about the little guy. It was just I asked myself, "was this really the relationship I wanted? Seeing this guy once or twice a month?" I was 22 and he was 20. We were at the prime of our sexual careers, for fuck sake. And me even questioning the relationship was enough for me to want to gracefully bow out. I drove down the PA turnpike with the radio playing a mix-CD TD made for me while coming up with my conversation starter.

[Jill Scott playing in the background] "Hi, Tiny Dancer. I care about you a lot, but I want to fuck around with other people."

I parked in his driveway, hugged him, and he led me to his back yard. We sat down, rather I sat down in the wicker chair on the back porch. TD looked stunned and sat across from me on the matching wicker love seat with a wicker coffee table separating us. I began on the affirmative tip and then slowly introduced the cons to our time together. He knew a serious conversation was about to be had. I dreaded his reaction. Whenever I had something serious to talk about, he would enter his Zen-zone and start to relax his body. Almost in sync with the tone of my voice, he began to stretch as only dancers do while maintaining total eye-contact. I could not keep my composure. His stretching was the interpretive dance to my sad and pathetic break-up.

"I don't know where this is headed . . ." [insert leg out-stretched toward the sky]

"We are in different places . . ." [insert arms reaching outward and dramatically opening]

"I don't think we can date any longer . . ." [insert head dropping to chest and hands covering face . . . oh wait, he was crying]

Shit.

Point of the conversation: Breaking-up over the phone or in a text message is worth a second thought.


-DeeCue

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