Embarrassing Realizations (Part 2 of ∞ )

No matter how hard you try, no matter how many washes, black track pants/sweat pants will inevitably leave black fuzzies in the crack of your arse. It's true.

Be aware of this now, and every time you wear them (for only the most discerning people [such as myself] wear pants with elastic waistbands that are comprised of a pilly fleecy interior). p.s. They call them sweat pants for a reason. SwAss people, swass.

Don't even TRY to deny that. You'll think you're pooping spiders for a second.

 
Second embarrassing revelation: Don't attend a "Toronto Dances With The Stars" workshop, with only a modicum of dance knowledge.

You will be surrounded by excellent dancers who already know the moves, more than a few bitchy/ignorant dance studio teachers/owners who will tell you to "get the hell out of the way", and a bunch of people who THINK they can dance, but cannot.

The latter group will treat your (my) apologetic, bumbling, self-conscious ass like a piece of whale poop, as you (I) muddle through the instruction without a partner.

Dmitry Chaplin shoots lasers out of his left eye. Totally worth the ticket cost.

I got a picture with Dmitry - he's cute and personable. He was nicer than most of the participants there!

Me & Dmitry, and my flashless, non-smart phone

While I am sure there were a few other semi-normal single folk out there attending this workshop, I was only exposed to a few crazies, and one complete and utter douchebag/slimeball who forcibly made me dance to the last song on my way out of the evening gala dinner (with my coat and gloves on).

MY INNER VOICE: "Guess what asshole, you're wrong. You can't dance." (Image source)

Third embarrassing revelation: If there is a somewhat friendly single male individual who offers to partner up with you for one dance practice session, and your gut is telling you "Get the fuck away from this guy, he oozes creep and causes you extreme discomfort!" ... then listen to your gut.

A little of this:

Irritating and salesman-like

Plus a little of this:

The finger-gun type. (No, this isn't him)

Inevitably, your phone calls to random people to avoid him and your declining of his insistent offer to leave the venue to go to lunch together will still not prevent him from proclaiming that you "are the one he wanted to spend the night with", then grabbing your ass at the end of the night. This will all happen before he asks how to stay in touch, you decline the offer, then he chastises you for having the audacity to show up to an event like that if you have a fiancee. (HELLO, dickwad, did you not see the ring on that finger?).

Seriously, he gave me his "card" with his title on it. Guess what his self-generated business card title was? 

"The Connector". (Arguably still better than "The Shocker", I suppose)

I saw him making his way around the room to all of the apparent single ladies, and I think he was gauging their playability based on their:

A) Outfit.
2) Lack of self-esteem (or unwarranted abundance of self esteem).
J) Level of isolation in the room (appearing to be there alone or not).
5) Their inability to tell him off when/if he gets all touchy/grabby/in their face/insistent.


Blah. I was just relieved to get the hell out of there and not have anyone trail me to my car. I will never go out on a limb an attend a social-dance thing like this again.

Final realization for this post: Tons of people call the person they are going to marry their fiancee. Or fiance. (Fee- awnce - say). I feel like an utter douche when I say those words (BF is FABULOUS, it's not him, it's the word). I realize now I can't call him BF any more in these posts, dammit. So in order to cushion the douchey-blow I feel I deliver with every "fiancee"-drop, BF will now be officially renamed to Feyoncé. HA! That's right. He's gonna hate it.

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