Full Credits

Stats & Data

October 29, 2010

My heart is my largest body part, which is embarrassing in locker rooms, but an admirable asset to have in life. I also experience difficulty focusing on things, especially in school. Kids would ask me if I had A.D.H.D., and I would say "no, but if you find some, let me know", just for the purpose of sounding cool, not that I ever intended to take the drug. They would say, "no, idiot. A.D.H.D. isn't a drug.", which led me to believe that they were under the impression that I had some kind of S.T.D. (which is impossible, because I was a never-nude from ages 8-15 resulting from an incident that occurred at one of my sisters big sleepovers when I was minding my own business in the bathroom, they were playing a game of Truth-or-Dare, and they all chose dare). I still struggle with showering without a swimming suit on...

When it comes to women, I fall quickly like a baby wearing a cement hat. I met a woman at a wedding not long ago. We were both assigned to the same table at the reception. I made her laugh. I complimented her on her prime rib and asparagus choice from the buffet line. I grabbed a glass of red wine for her when I went for a refill on my whiskey. I told her a funny story, something about a sweater-wearing horse that hates his job, she laughed again, and then she said that she'd like to dance with me. I liked the way she laughed. Her head would tip back and her eyes would close, as though that moment was so overwhelmingly satisfying that her mind wanted to focus on only that one thing. So, we danced.

She wore a red dress, and she smelled like peach nectar. It was like dancing with a piece of fruit, but better because she was a real woman. I'll admit that I am a dark horse on the dance floor. Most people see me approaching a couples dancing situation and think that it's going to look like a botched purse-snatching. On the contrary, I was forced by my sister to take "Funk" when I was eleven. Funk is basically hip-hop, but it was the 1990's, so everything had to have some kind of stupid "In Living Color" word-spin to it.

My training in dance has conditioned a muscle memory attached to my pelvis and limbs that is near to being out of my control. It's very similar to that movie with Michael J. Fox wear he turns into a really good werewolf high school basketball player, but instead of turning into a really good werewolf high school basketball player, I turn into a finger-snapping rhythmic explosion. Dancing is my peacock feather-spread, and I've yet to be out peacock feather-spreaded. It's not over-inflated confidence, it's absolute certainty.

I one-arm dipped her a couple of times, and whispered more wit and manly sass into her ears than a human mind should be expected to handle. It's how I draw it up every time.

After a few dances, I built in some break time where I would let her drift off to her girlfriends, out-of-breath and glowing, to report on the really good werewolf high school basketball player that was making her wildest fantasies come true.

We had one mutual girlfriend that escaped out of the back of the reception facility to meet and fill me in on the feedback. She reported that she was having a hell of time, and bet that I would clean-up okay (which was tough to hear because I was about as clean as I get without a Tyra Banks complete man-makeover. That's like telling a Chrysler LeBaron convertible that it can be more than a Chrysler LeBaron convertible, but believe me, it will always be just a Chrysler LeBaron convertible).

The night progressed and we found ourselves sitting outside, next to a small pond with a trickling waterfall running down from a stone ledge. It was dark and difficult to see, and at first I thought someone was relieving themselves just a matter of feet from us. She was confident that it was the fountain, and said that it was "romantic". I told her that I couldn't stop picturing us sitting in a public bathroom stall together at that moment with a guy named Harold peeing right next to us and whistling a Dean Martin classic (it's not as romantic as it sounds). And because I've actually had that experience, I struggled to shake the image.

She asked if I tend to destroy moments like that on a regular basis. I said, "yes, it tends to be a reliable function of my personality". She shook my hand, stood up, and said "good luck", and then disappeared back into the crowd-filled reception hall like an Alka-Seltzer tablet in a tall glass of milk.

The night went about as well as I could have imagined.

Until next time: When the moment is right, but your words are wrong, it will likely ruin your night, like sleeping in a thong.