Note To Self: You Can’t “Sexy” Dance

So tonight I got home from my vacation in Boston (I’ll provide an overall synopsis of that experience in a coming post) and found out that some friends of mine were going to a local bar and wanted me to join. Being a sucker for attractive girls and good company, I quickly said yes (apparently four nights of drinking in Boston wasn’t enough for me). So these previously stated atrratctive/good company gals swooped by my house and picked me up and we went to the aformentioned local bar. It was a good time had by all. Laughs were had, smiles were shown, and pride was still intact.

After an hour or so (I could be off in my keeping of time) a group of people decided to go to a different bar where dancing was allowed and encouraged (as could be seen by the DJ, large speakers, dimly lit dance floor, and countless people rubbing up against each other like they had an itch they just couldn’t quite scratch). I decided to go because one of the attractive girls I’ve already mentioned said she would gladly dance with me. God bless her soul…

So we arrive at this bar and the music is thumping (as are clothed genitals) and the drinks are flowing (as is a portion of the male clientele’s saliva) and before you know it I am on the dance floor dancing with this very attractive girl and I look like I’m clearly deaf. Which is actually unfair to deaf people because while they can’t hear the beat they can feel it and I simply couldn’t do either of these things. But as any man with any sort of pride (I still had it at this point) I pressed on. And I danced awkwardly. And my female companion did her very best to make the best out of the situation. And I felt horrible.

Which is an odd feeling. Here I am, dancing with a female who I find to be very appealing, and yet I feel so awful that she is wasting her, in my opinion, wonderful body movements on someone who would be better off impersonating FDR. So as I move my body out of sync with the beat fully realizing that I am possibly the worst person probably to ever live who has ever danced, my kind partner also continues. And she smiles. And she laughs in a good natured way that only a genuine person can laugh. The song ends (but really just goes into another song where some fellow on a mic yells something about New Jersey bitches) and I apologize for my lack of any rhythm. And she smiles again and says that she had fun. And I smile and tell her to basically run along and play with the people who know what they’re doing. And so of course, she stands next to me on the side of the dance floor. Because this is what honest, nice people do. And terrible dancers who know they’ve slightly made a good night a little worse for a lovely female, write blogs dedicated to the person who was kind enough to give them a shot. And kind enough to smile at them when they felt like they were the worst dancer in the room.

So thanks. If I ever get the chance to dance with you again I’ll study the moves of Ricky Martin. Maybe it will work better that time.

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