Last night, Craig and I decided that we would have a whole evening devoted to his Nebraska roots. As I have dragged him to the ballet and made him watch chick flicks all week long, I figured it was the least I could do. Plus, I love a cowboy. Even an “I go to Georgetown Law and got these boots at J.Crew” one. There are many urban cowboys at Nick’s. CPAs by day, line dancers by night. But Craig is not one of them. In fact, a little Travis Tritt and a plaid shirt and the man is almost frighteningly c.o.u.n.t.r.y.
I on the other hand am rather intimidated by a synchronized dance. What if I step on my neighbor’s foot? What if I slow up the line with my inferior toe taps? So when the ”El Paso Two Step” was called by a very large man named Scruff and Craig got his “let’s give it a whirl, little girl” look in his eye, I immediately hid my head in his armpit and refused to take the floor. People at Nick’s are amazing group dancers and I just don’t feel that it’s right to infringe on their space. But after two whiskeys, I let Craig push me around the joint and yelled at him for traveling too much. He was just so darn excited to be back in his element that I’m surprised he didn’t start yee-hawing his way across the Mason-Dixon line.
It was fun to see Craig happy as a lark and play hillbilly for a night. And let’s be honest, I absolutely love any excuse for big hair, too much makeup, push up bras and Jack Daniels.