Last night I went to a big swing dance party -- and aside from being the least coordinated women in the entire room (of those willing to get out on the dance floor anyway), there weren't many men to meet. Actually, I really like it that way. I like to DANCE, and the best dancers are not necessarily the guys I would be attracted to and want to date. Though I must admit, I thought Mr. Nice Guy would be there (he RSVPed on Facebook). He wasn't. Ah well.
After a few good turns on the dance floor, a nice conversation with Blue Balls (he was there, oh yeah...), and the realization that I really just wanted to get home, I grabbed my coat, put on my scarf, and stopped by the host stand to see if they validated parking.
So I'm waiting at the host stand, with my parking ticket held out, and some dorko-suav-ay sidles on up to me and tries to strike up some small talk. I asked him how he liked the dancing, and he replies... "oh, I'm more a lover than a dancer."
This guy could play Steve Jobs younger, dorkier brother on TV.
I did not laugh in his face. I did not falter, I just smiled and found some way to change the subject. Then I tried to find some kind of escape, and failing miserably (I was still trying to get my parking validated) -- when I'm-A-Lover-Not-A-Dancer foisted his card in my face.
Oh dear. He's probably a wonderfully nice guy. And dork. And such. Do I call?
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