I Don’t Do Sexy

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My biggest dream about finding a Big Girl job?

When I get the Big Girl job, you can call me the Professional

Not having to work weekends.

I don’t remember the last time I had a Saturday night off to have it to myself. Not just so I can sit at home and do whatever, but to have the freedom to go and do whatever I want for *me* and no one else. Granted, where I am right now, it’s usually not too busy in the evenings unless there’s a predesignated party going on . The only times I don’t work on a Saturday evening are when I take it off to another obligation I have. Say bridesmaid dress shopping, a baptism for a nephew/niece, or doctor recommended bed rest. Yeah…things I want to do, yes, but things I wouldn’t do on a normal basis. There’s a difference there.

I no longer know the meaning of the phrase 'sleeping in.'

Another reason I don’t like working Saturday evenings? If I sleep in too much, I feel guilty about wasting the day and I can’t have “off time” like weekends were supposed to mean. Tis my lot in life until I become a grown up, I know, but I’ve done it for a year and I’m ready for a change of pace. I really shouldnt be saying that. There are people around here who have worked weekend evenings for more years than I care to imagine, and here they are, with a smile on their face. How do they do it? Maybe one day I’ll understand it, but for now, I keep telling myself its temporary. The real deal will come.

My aim was more than a little off. Too many drunken dancers to watch can do distract a person's attention.

Last night was a great time with family. My bro-han was in town, so I met up with him and my sister after my working hours came to a close. Ate the rest of their ordered nachos and pizza, and we trekked our way to one bar to find the pool tables were all occupied. So we trekked to another, and found our pool table and rocked a couple of games. If there is one thing in this world I suck at, it’s playing pool. I might be on a winning streak for 3 turns, and then I do something stupid like make the cue ball jump over the intended numbered ball, and my game goes straight to hell. Even a round of darts proved awful for me, and usually I am an ace at darts! Near bullseyes left and right, and hitting my designated number on a whim. I blame the pool on tiring my arms out.

Of course, there was the stream of drunk, creepy men making eyes at me. I’m not saying this to gloat or brag about how attractive I am. When my brother has to keep between me and the eye-rapist to ward him off, that’s not something to be proud of. In fact, it’s creepy how some guys will act that way. Attractive on his part? Not by a long shot.

My favorite part of the evening? A 40-year-old man with shoulder length salt-and-pepper gray hair, a baseball cap, a button-down denim shirt, and hiking boots trying to bump and grind to a Nelly song on an empty dance floor littered with glow sticks. If that isn’t an awkward attempt for generation mashing, I don’t know what is. He seemed to be enjoying himself, which is what really matters. He provided great entertainment for the rest of us, too.

I dance like a Barbie Girl Try it. It's a blast!

Although, I really shouldn’t be talking. Between me and my sister competing with each other’s moves for who could be the best pool stick exotic dancer and our signature moves to Aqua’s Barbie Girl song (dancing like a Barbie never felt so good!), I’m sure I was providing quite the entertainment, too.

Here’s the thing: I’m a dancer at heart. In reality, sometimes I can pull off a few moves and make it look like I know what I’m doing. On a constant basis, however, I continue to prove how some people were blessed with beautiful bodies that move in gorgeous ways. Mine? It sort of moves in whatever way it wants to, and it doesn’t look graceful at all. Don’t ask me to do sexy. I don’t do sexy. I am not a sexy dancer. When I dance, don’t think Beyoncé or Lady Gaga or Katy Perry. Think Bjork, in the sense that she is an awkward and weird dresser.

I told you not to think about Beyoncé!

I’m sure that put a lovely image in your head. I apologize profusely, but I can’t say I’m a sexy dancer. I’m not. I can be an emotional dancer, but that doesn’t always mean sexy.

I do recall being called sexy once in my Jazz dance class a couple of years ago. My classmates said I had “a sexy, penetrating look in my eyes” and since I wore my hair loose for the final dance number, it added “a sexed up feel to the whole thing, especially when it stuck and clung to my face. It was very sweaty, in a hot, want-you-now kind of way.”

A role I must play in my lifetime, and part of the reason I got rave reviews for that class dance final. I was channeling my inner Velma.

Best, and only, time I will ever be told that about my dancing.

A couple of drinks and shots later, my party and I found ourselves at home, crashing out on various couches and air mattresses. Put on an episode of Grey’s Anatomy, and who calls me at 2:00 am on the dot? You guessed it. New Guy. Apparently, he can only talk to me when he’s inebriated. Warning sign about how this relationship is going? I’m willing to bet $100 on it. Both my brother and sister exclaimed “Who’s calling you at this hour!?” It didn’t take long to see the annoyed look on my sister’s face when I told her. She doesn’t think it’s a good idea for us to even pursue anything since New Guy appears to have a serious need of getting his act together.

I’m beginning to agree with her, and that in itself is a scary notion.

When I finally crawled under my covers, I did call him back and, miraculously, he answered. On a side note, he called me babe last night. He only calls me babe when he’s been drinking. Warning sign #2? Anyways, he answered, and all he wants to talk about is how sick he feels, what he’s doing, how he knows all this stuff about film, how there’s no way in hell I know the same facts and tidbits he knows about films, and how he’s not feeling drunk. I outright called him a jerk, and told him I was going to bed. He got mad at that. Warning sign #3? I’m sorry, but I really don’t want to talk to someone in a drunken state of mind, and who thinks he’s the cats meow when I’m super tired.

Did he ask how my day was? No. Did he ask how I’m feeling a week after my surgical procedure? No. Did he tell me I’m nowhere near his intellect when it comes to movies? Yes. I had my answers. I said good night and hung up. I don’t need a guy like that, especially one who acts like that when he’s six years my senior. That habit isn’t going away anytime soon.

Just found out now that he’s coming into town for the hockey game. Great. Another few hours of deciphering whether that means he wants me to meet up with him afterwards, or if he’s just giving me a warning in case I run into him somewhere on the city’s night life scene. OR he’s coming up to keep an eye on me and his Best Friend so we don’t do anything together. Seriously? Men can be so blockheaded sometimes.

Glad to hear you're out of the garbage phase 🙂

“Why should I go when the going’s so good? …I lived through the garbage. I might as well dine on the caviar.”

I love what you’re saying Beverly Sills, a soprano sensation. I think I’m still sifting through the garbage. My caviar is being held on reserve. It’s not an appropriate time to get a full taste just yet. Or so the Force is trying to tell me, I think.

See? I told you I was still sifting through the muck and gunk.

Blessed be your Saturday evenings, my fellow Jedi. Things could get crazy, and if they do, know the Force is always by your side. Use your instincts, and you’ll know what to do.

Advice for your Saturday evening.
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