Embarrassing Realizations (Part 3 of ∞ )

All in the same day....

Realizing, as you arrive late to hot yoga, that you have no towel to sop your sweat/keep your clammy, slimy hands from slipping and letting you face-plant/wipe off your appendages so you can actually hold on to them.

Oh, LOLcats, is there anything you CAN'T do?

Further realizing the closest thing that will have to make due, out of the trunk of your car, is a sweater of grandmotherly proportions and quality that you purchased at a thrift shop in 1996 and have left in your trunk "just in case".

I think the layering was cool, a-la-Nirvana, circa 1996. I could be very, very wrong, though.

Upon implementation of said granny sweater, realizing that NEITHER your rubber yoga mat nor your acrylic/polyester/synthetic knit sweater stops hands and feet from slipping.

Then realizing that your I-only-wear-these-capris-when-I-haven't-washed-my-workout-clothes-and-they-are-all-that's-left purple capri pants display, quite clearly and nicely for all to see, that you sweat excessively in your groin.

You know, like this, except not nearly as nice, probably from circa 1987 or else free from the Goodlife Gym. What?!? It was free.

Fast forward to the end of a painful hot yoga class. Throw on a pair of jeans that happen to be in your dufflebag (does anyone under the age of 50 refer to these things as dufflebags, or is it just me? Just me. Okay.).

Go to the pet store, and shop at the grocery store for over an hour before realizing that your zipper is down.

Totally down. Completely open.

And, well, you just came from being drenched in hot yoga and therefore removed your sw-assy underclothes and put the jeans on as a temporary sweat cover until you were able to go home and shower.

Also noting that you are allowing a certain amount of... erm.... growth, in order to facilitate honeymoon sugaring (much like waxing).

Finally get into your car, giving yourself multiple, much-needed facepalms.

Awesome day and it's only 12:20pm.

Grin and bear it, folks. You've got another 12 hours of awake time to suffer through. Well, if you're me, that is.

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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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Embarrassing Realizations (Part 1 of ∞ )

In no logical order:


I went bra shopping the other day. I found out that I am neither a B, C or A cup. Go figure. There are no half sizes, so I am kind of fucked pooched on that one. Also - nipples are ugly, weird creatures. Ladies, don't even TRY to deny that one.

Or lack thereof, or knowledge of the correct size...

Trying to find a smart word to use and failing miserably makes you sound like a stupid douchebag; simply use simple sentences when you are fatigued and not-at-all articulate. (Yes, I just used 'douchebag' and 'articulate' in the same sentence - that takes talent, my friends). Though I may have misused the semi-colon, despite The Oatmeal's teachings... oh well, I'll use the hell out of the beloved ellipsis to make up for it.


Farting Passing gas with an mp3 player on and headphones in your head is still audible farting to the people around you. Seriously. You need to accept that and remember that. The same goes for being on the phone at the office and lifting a cheek. Sure, the person on the other end may not be aware, but your co-workers sure as hell are!

I realize that I panic when I get close to a drive-thru window and have, more than once, hit the wrong button to put the window down because I get all flustered when I have to place an order. Even for a coffee.
I'd like to blame this on my old Impala that my Dad helped re-configure (the driver's side window button fried out, so he finagled a way to switch the 4-pad window controls to allow me to control the windows on a diagonal, and backwards). But in truth, I just get all antsy and push buttons randomly. Awesome.



That having a coupon and inviting your mom and sister to shop at a store in your hometown is not enough reason for them to want to spend some time shopping with you if you live 28 minutes from their alternate store/destination. They will find a coupon elsewhere, and shop together without you. You will shop alone. And you won't find a bra that fits. And, see paragraph below.

(p.s. THANKS A BUNCH G.D. for the COUPON!!! MWUAH!! You are a doll!).

That trying to save money by trying on all of the cute tight fitting clearance dresses will end up costing you more than you bargained for when you realize the next day that your belly ring (purchased at a real, actual jewelry store, despite BF's stern, but short-lived, objections) busted off and is likely stuck on the inside of one of said dresses, somewhere in the store. Alternately, it may have been swept up in the change room and thrown in the trash. Way to save.

See? At least I learned about clearance stuff since my last post... no wait...

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