 If they weren't so much the same, I might remember which Denver bar I was in when this life-changing epiphany struck: this blows!
It was a weekend night, I'm sure, doesn't matter which, pint in hand and eyes on some Saran-tight dress. Music pounded just above shouting volume and people muscled each other like piglets at the teat for 30 seconds at the bar.
I looked at my own drink (muscled from said bar) and thought, "This eight-ounce drink cost more than two gallons of gas." Why was I there anyway, to attempt some inebriated introduction to the woman of my dreams?
During the same summer, the compact disc player in my car secreted the CD like a tongue from a child's mouth and defaulted permanently to its more primitive function: FM radio.
The miracle of modern car stereos is that they’ll store ten-plus stations in memory. The drawback is that there's not a city in America with ten good stations.
Too cheap to just replace the thing, I wandered the selections, occasionally picking up a song to sing along to. (Be honest, you do it too.
But even as little as I drive, maybe 30 minutes a week, it didn't take long before the songs I was belting out became tired. Were Denver bars and radio becoming old...or was I?
Approaching 30 years old, I had been in Denver half my life. I spent high school nights studying at The Market on Larimer Street and serving my way through college at Josephina's a few doors down (now Rioja and Corridor 44).
Over the years, I've watched our little cow town become a downtown. Coors' Field, Elitch Gardens, DIA, Pepsi Center, Invesco Field, the Convention Center, the new Hyatt, the Denver Art Museum.
Yet, as the skyline changes and the population booms and housing costs climb and traffic gets thick, a deep-rooted theme thrives like a thick vine through our concrete jungle—a theme I had resisted for years.
Saddle Up
"Do you wanna go to the Cowboy Lounge?" asked a friend.
I must admit that its Lower Downtown (LoDo) location provoked images of long lines of freshman drinkers. It was an instant turnoff. On the other hand, it was something new. And that it certainly was.
In my wonder years when I was less social, line dancing seemed...well, silly. Now it was strangely intriguing. My two left feet would never pick up the rhythm and yet I watched, absorbed, as boots and sneakers kicked and stepped and turned in sync.
"The Devil Went Down to Georgia" cleared the center of the floor and a couple began flinging each other around, he with the steadfast gait of the Marlboro man and she with a smile as big as Texas.
Clearly, I would need lessons.
I quickly solicited a partner (OK, it was my sister) and headed to the Grizzly Rose. Line dance lessons are taught every Tuesday night for three bucks.
Step-by-step (pun intended), the instructor walked the class of 50 through a 64-beat dance, and within an hour we'd learned our first line dance. We also learned that dancing in rubber-soled shoes is like sprinting on flypaper.
Boot Scootin’
Sheplers is a virtual warehouse of Western wear, with more "shit kickers" than there will ever be shit to kick.
My first pair of boots were simple, brown and unimaginably comfortable. For years, I had wondered exactly how one might "sashay," "amble," or "mosey." Now I understood: it's the boots. The leather soles and solid heels enhanced the turns and stomps so characteristic to line dancing, and improvement through weekly lessons prompted my further education.
I quickly solicited a partner (OK, it was my sister again) and signed up for another class: two-step. Within a few weeks I was beginning to see how Marlboro Man and Texas Smile came to be so comfortable hurling each other around, albeit they were swing dancing.
At the same time, I was coming to understand and adopt a lifestyle I had never known was part of me. By searching beyond my horizons and trying something new—not just being there, but actually trying it, even if I sucked—I discovered that variety is the spice of life, and the more variety we experience, the richer our lives become.
That's when I bought the hat.
Getting Lid
I had for weeks been taking country dance lessons, had already programmed FM stations 92.5, 98.5 and 99.1 into my car stereo, had seen Rascal Flatts, Gary Allan, and The Wreckers in concert, had frequented Buck Wild Saloon in the Denver Pavilions and visited Stampede in Aurora.
It was time to complete the metamorphosis. The black Stetson I purchased complemented the stubble on my face as well as the new belt, whose buckle was the size of a Wyomin' license plate. (Kidding about the buckle.)
In retrospect, this transition from city slicker to shit kicker began with this blows, a conclusion prompted by the (popular, I'm sure) unfulfilled hope of meeting someone in a bar. Ironically, that's where I met Angela. Well, in all honesty, she met me.
After the third two-step class at the Grizzly Rose, she approached. (I'm telling ya, guys, the hat and boots work!) After the fifth, my sister called it quits on the lessons and I asked Angela to dance. "My cowboy," she's called me ever since.
Keep in mind, I'm not suggesting the country music lifestyle for everyone. You may be downright opposed to it. I once was. You may also be at the bar some night and catch yourself thinking, "Am I really gonna meet someone here?" or "How is this enhancing my life?" or simply, "This blows."
If you do, listen to yourself, challenge yourself, try something different. It may just change your life.
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