(Random factoid pertinent to this tale: Dowlan is about 6'2" and I am about 5'3")
I love to dance. All kinds of dancing. Well, by 'all kinds' I mean real dancing, not that stupid drug-induced body twitching that happens in clubs that my friend Amanda swears is fun but I am not willing to try because that would involved extensive and repeated exposure to 'club music' (which carries the same disclaimer as 'club dancing').
Er, where was I? Yes, dancing. I danced ballet for 14 years, I can polka my heart out, stay off your toes two-steppin' and can at least moderately fake my way in a ballroom or through latin dances. And I love to swing. (No, not THAT kind of swinging--remember that we're talking about dancing!)
So back in the early days of dating Dowlan, I thought that I would teach him to swing. Part of this was because I missed dancing, but there was also a healthy dose of wanting-to-do-anything-other-than-watch-Jackie-Chan-movies involved.
I'd forgotten some key factors in selecting a partner: Dowlan is a white boy. He is Church of Christ. He is from Oklahoma. His degrees are in Engineering Physics and Bible.
He was a teenager in the 80's. Do any of these things scream 'good dancer' to you? Didn't think so.
So Dowlan had this roommate named Richard. If anyone is reading this knows Richard, they're thinking, "Oh, Richard. Richard. This is going to get good." As much as I hate to disappoint, the only role Richard plays in this tale is brief: Richard and Dowlan used to go to the YMCA and work out fairly often. He had done this the day before I gave Dowlan his second (and final) swing lesson. Although this seems trivial, I guarantee you that it is not.
So I am teaching Dowlan to swing. And he gets brave, stupidly brave, and attempts to swing me under his leg as he kicks over my head. Sadly, the foot of difference in our heights makes no difference to his sore muscles. Or to my head as his foot makes contact with it.
That's right: Oklahoma WASP nerd boy just kicked me in the head and knocked me to the ground. I have minor whiplash. I have to go to the doctor and then to the ER (which are absolutely hysterical tales in themselves, but will have to wait). I miss college finals that I have to reschedule because the vicodin is interfering with my studies.
How does this tale of yore relate to the focus of this blog--my children and their stories, you ask? Well, other than confirming that it was a miracle that we stayed intact (both physically and metaphorically) long enough to have lots'o'bebbies, it is the girls' favorite story to hear from our pre-child days.
After asking about it (yet again) this evening, Melody chanted the following:
Mama called the doctor and the doctor said,
"No more Dowlan to kick you in the head!"