Luv Doc: Crock-Pot Potpourri

Dear Luv Doc,

I'm a dancer. I dance in my tiny living room even though it confuses my dog. I dance at the bookstore, whether they're playing Bowie or Bach. At art museums, I sometimes find myself in a sort of interpretive dance trance if the color moves me just so (I'm also a synesthete). But most of all, I love dancing with my boyfriend at a local honky-tonk. He's kind of a rock star and on tour right now, and I have, like, no energy to go out alone. I also feel bad dancing without him, but he's the one who's opting for five weeks on the road in a smelly van and is probably fielding requests to put his John Hancock on groupie cleavage every night. So, what's a dancing dame to do?

– D.D.

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Dance. I'm happy we got that solved so quickly. Most weeks, my answers take several paragraphs and hundreds of words, so it's really nice to able to knock this out in just one. Now we can get on to the more pressing issue of putting John Hancocks on groupie cleavage.

As someone who has at least some passing familiarity with spending time on the road in a smelly van, I can tell you this: Requests for putting John Hancocks on groupie cleavage generally hovers around 0.0 – maybe slightly less than that. Don't get me wrong: I am willing to believe that your boyfriend is an absolute Adonis in every way, but anyone who has spent long hours in a band van with four other people knows that a band van is pretty much a Crock-Pot potpourri of fast-food cheeseburgers, stale beer farts, schwag weed, and body odor. If you were cooking up a cologne for birth control all you would need to do is put a lid on a mason jar in a band van.

To get a shot at a cleavage autograph, you at least need to show up in a tour bus – even if it's a broke-ass old Eighties model that costs less than a Dodge Sprinter and has the current band's name spray-painted over the old one. Just know that you might have to stretch that cleavage out with a quilting hoop to get a smooth signature. Hey, at least you're signing boobs, right? That was an ugly image, but I'm guessing that being a synesthete, you don't need any sugar coating.

What you do need is to do what you love. You can bet your ass that your boyfriend isn't spending five weeks in a Crock-Pot of funk just because he wants to sign titties. No, he is out there exercising the skill he worked really hard to get good at because he loves it so much. You would not deny him that joy any more than he would deny you the joy of doing what you so clearly love: dancing. So, let that love give you the energy to go out alone or to find a dance partner who shares that love to go with you. I'm sure your boyfriend will understand.