The following is the essence of a conversation from ballroom dance practice, earlier this evening (yes, it’s that time* of year again!):

[*Whether “that time” refers to me babbling about dancing a bunch, or to my excessive and unwarranted use of faux-play-script as a narrative device, is up for debate.]

<Brent and Jenny are dancing a hustle>

Brent: So, didja do anything exciting over the summer?

Jenny: Not really. I guess I went to a fireworks festival in Canada, but that’s about it.

<Brent notices, near the end of the song, a ring on Jenny’s left hand. He suspects strongly that it is new.>

[Time passes]

<Brent notices that Jenny’s ring is indeed on her fourth finger, and it looks pretty darn nice.>

[Time passes]

<Brent catches Jenny when she’s not otherwise occupied.>

Brent: A’ight, missy, let’s see your left hand.

<Jenny shows her left hand; Brent verifies that the ring is real.>

Brent: …so you actually had an eventful summer, eh?

Jenny: …

<Brent shakes his head; Jenny laughs.>

How in the world does getting engaged not qualify as an important event in your summer, let alone your life? (In her defense, she did say that she normally only thinks about vacations when asked about summers…) And, yes, this was “my genius” Jenny from west coast. *sob*

I also received a backhanded compliment, in the form of a complaint about a gal not knowing whether or not I could actually dance lindy hop when I said I was terrible at it—because I had earlier claimed not to be very good at west coast, and then kicked ass (her words). Yeah. (Fortunately, she eventually took me at my word that I was in poor lindy-hop shape; that and salsa are two dances that have been lost to the ever-more-dense and expanding fog of my memory.)