*Hey guys, hi. This was a post I wrote several months ago that I dug out of my drafts folder. You all seem to enjoy my humorous posts, so here you go. Also, for anyone wondering, yes, this all actually happened.*
Dear People At My Dance Studio (you know who you are)
We’ve been in a social war. And you, ringleader, started it. Don’t try to argue and tell me that it wasn’t, and that it was in fact me who started it that fateful day when I mentioned that I thought Batman was cooler than Ironman. You recoiled in so much overblown teenage-girl horror that anyone watching from a distance probably thought I insulted your mother.
In retrospect, I probably should have just shrugged and rolled my eyes at you, and disengaged from the conversation. Unfortunately, you demanded to know why I thought such a terrible thing. Looking back now, I really should have disengaged at that point. But I’m that person who wants to be right, so I responded with my reason. “Tony Stark’s an idiot.”
I know, I know, I’m sorry, Marvel Fans (except to those at my dance studio. I’m most emphatically not sorry to you). Maybe I should have softened my words or said something else. But on the other hand, you, Ringleader, asked, and that was my opinion.
Well, from the way you reacted any innocent bystanders who had given me the benefit of the doubt probably now thought I had insulted and then strangled your mother. You started to demand how I could like Batman, but you never finished, because class started.
I forgot about the whole thing. Until tech week, when the texts started coming in,
A random number texted me claiming to be Tony Stark. For three days straight. I didn’t know it was you, in fact I thought it was a close friend of mine.
Turns out, it was you, and several other people in your dressing room, who apparently finagled my number somewhere.
Well, congratulations, you thoroughly ruined all of the Avengers for me, and also ate up a whole lot of my phone plan. I hope you’re happy.
Three weeks later, the war was still raging. I couldn’t walk into the studio without someone point-blank furiously telling me that Ironman is the best or whatever. Despite trying to avoid you like the plague, Ringleader, somehow you always ended up beside me during grande allegro, just to glare at me on the irritating way you do.
The fact is, Batman is cooler than Ironman. I still hold firm to my conviction. But a month ago, when this whole mess began, it didn’t really matter to me all that much. No, I don’t like Tony Stark. Yes, I think Batman is awesome. But does it matter enough to be in a war over it? No.
A month ago, I really didn’t care about what superhero was the best. It didn’t matter then. It doesn’t matter now. I wasn’t mad because you don’t like Batman, and I didn’t exact revenge because you’re Ironman’s number #1 fan. I did it to be right. I did it to one-up you. I did it to end this stupid social war that quite frankly, is the stupidest thing since Tony Stark announcing on national television that he was Ironman. Talk about poor judgement, pal.
And exact my revenge I did. I’m not gonna lie. It was glorious. Probably one of my finest pranking moments, the crown jewel in my prank-queen crown.
You prank texted me pretending to be Ironman. I had Ironman leave you a croissant. Then I prank texted you pretending to be Ironman.
It was pretty simple, actually. Panera doesn’t ask questions when you order something through their app. You can put down pretty much whatever name you hecking want. So, guess what I planted in your bag? That’s right. A slightly squished Panera Bread croissant with a label on it that said ‘Tony Stark’.
Who’s the Ironman pranking queen NOW, Ringleader? I think it’s safe to say that it’s not you anymore. The way you and all your friends flipped out when you discovered my prank pastry, watching from a distance one might think you actually believed that Ironman left it for you.
I wasn’t even done yet. I sealed the deal with a few texts from Ironman from a Manhattan area code phone number. The studio was buzzing about that for a week. It probably would have buzzed for weeks, plural, but then COVID happened and everything shut down.
Since then, I’ve seen you a couple times. I would’ve liked some sort of a formal truce, but all I got was an awkward moment of eye contact. You aren’t dancing at my studio anymore, so I doubt I’ll get any kind of formal closure.
We aren’t friends. We probably never will be. But the war is over, so we aren’t mortal enemies anymore. We’re kind of like England and France. Not friends. But not enemies. Just passive-aggressive and very competitive.
What’s the moral of the story? To be honest, I’m not exactly sure. It’s the kind of story that defies all the easy morals like ‘forgive and forget’ or ‘honesty is the best policy’ or ‘don’t get in a fight with a rabid Ironman fan’.
Forgiving didn’t happen, nobody will ever forget it, I don’t think there’s anything too honest about making a fake Panera account, and had I listened to the last moral, there would be no amusing story.
Let’s just settle on ‘anything is an amusing story if you tell it right’.
Someday, I’ll tell this story to my future kids. Maybe you will too, Ringleader. And if our kids dance at the same studio… heaven help us all, it’ll be Superhero War II and we should prep for nuclear warfare.
Oh, and Batman? He’s still better.