Space

There's a space you create when your dancing, about the lenght of your arms. Once you start dancing for about a song, you carve this space out on the dance floor. The better dancers will respect your space and work within their own. The clumsier ones will stagger into you, or step on your feet.

There are exceptions to this rule: the drunk who can't quite realize where his space ends, the entusiastic dancer who focuses more on jumping around that watching where they are going. But by and large collisions are few and far between.

It was a pretty good night, but there was a familar bittersweet undertaste. But I'm not going to elaborate on it anymore. I'm just going to go to bed, and sleep it off.

Things are good. But they could be better.

Do you ever just stop

and wonder what the hell you are doing?

The Adventures of Chris O'Brien: Office Sitcom star

I walked in the managers office and began to set up her new computer. Just as I was about ready to plug in the last cable, she asked if I could move it under her desk. Stop. Count to three. Sure, I can do that. She smiles and flutters out of the office, late for some meeting.
I unplug everything and move the computer under the desk. Most of the cable slide through the hole in the top of the desk, but two of them are just too large. I look under the desk, and there isn't enough room to slide them under. I resort to the old IT standby of lifting the desk with my shoulders so I can squeeze the cables underneath. The desk is in two sections and hard to lift, so it's hard to move. I close the office door, take off my shirt, and move under the desk to lift the desk.

Then it hits me. I can see it play out in my mind.

Manager comes back with someone for a meeting. She finds a half naked guy under her desk. Clue laugh track.

I get up, put my shirt back on, and finish the setup. My life will not become an episode of Three's Company.