1986: Most of my friends were male. Once, when we were out dancing, they commiserated to me how awful and soul-crushing it was to ask women to dance and to be turned down.
"If anyone asks me to dance, no matter who it is, I will dance with them," I proclaimed, in a gesture of imagined saintliness. I wasn't going to be one of those Snotty Bitches. I was going to be Sister Suebob of the Dancing Shoes.
Cut to a vast, crowded club in a college town. Saturday night. A guy came up to ask me to dance. I remember him as being about as attractive as Urkel, a white Urkel. Stringy floppy greasy hair, pants hiked up, windbreaker. Perhaps my mind has embroidered this in the intervening years, but that is how I remember it.
I took a deep breath, smiled my saintliest smile, and went to dance. Big deal - three minutes of my life. What could go wrong? Mmm hmmmm.
At the end of the dance, he gave me a curious little bow. "How old-fashioned," I thought.
Then his hand shot out and honked - HONKED - my breast, giving it a hard squeeze. I expected it to make noise like a bicycle horn almost. He disappeared into the crowd as I stood there, mouth gaping.
I looked around for the little creep but I never found him. Gone.
I told this story to one of my male friends and he said "HE'S THAT GUY! The guy who ruins it for all the rest of us."
I was going to post about how much I hate this "The Secret" movie/book thing that Oprah is pimping lately. Basically, The Secret is "what you think about is what you will get out of life."
But I found out that at least 2 blogs have taken it on already: Mike's Weekly Skeptic Rant and The Stupidity Tracker both have nice screeds up. I will post about it myself when I have time.
New posts up at Linkateria AND True Employee Confessions.
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