I met this guy who is perfect on paper but horrible at dancing. At a club last weekend, it was so embarrassing, people were putting him on social media. He looked like one of those inflatable tube dancers (like at mattress shops), on adderall, with something stuck up his butt. I’m a professional dancer, so I love to dance, but not with this guy. Am I doomed?
— Dancing Queen
Instead of capping this retort with the obvious solution (teach him how to dance, fool), let’s wax poetic because I like to talk. I’ll pull up a high horse for you while you pour us a couple dozen rosés. That’s what you kids drink these days. Make mine not that, with a hefty splash of well whiskey.
Aw, you’re embarrassed. It can be distressing to watch other humans do what other humans do differently. It’s exactly like if you were to shit your white slacks in front of your boss during your “How to Not Shit Your Pants in Front of your Boss” presentation. Life likes to throw us curveballs.
There are so many people out there with worse traits. He could be grinding up human limbs in a wood chipper. He could shave his balls with his face razor. He could bleach assholes for a living.
It’s OK to be picky, but you’re being petty, so I’m passing judgment (and gas). Dating is full of juicy, wet, gut-punching surprises. So if he’s “good on paper,” take the dancing in stride. Let him be the colorful emu he aspires to be. Let him flail, float and flex his dance feathers. Let the poor emu fly.
Emus can’t fly. Hiccup.
Give me the booze, lady. You’ve only been drinking for, like, 20 sentences. Lightweight.
I’m a bridesmaid for the 11th time, and for the 11th time, the dress is deplorable. It’s costing me $400 after alterations, and I know I’ll never wear it again. I think I’ve spent around $5,000 on ugly dresses in my lifetime. There’s no real etiquette in turning down a bridesmaid job, is there?
— Maid in Mourning
Made in Satin:
I have bad news. If you’ve been a bridesmaid three times, you’re destined to be an old maid and never get married, folklore told me at the bar last night. So on top of all that satin, organza, chiffon, charmeuse and tulle, you’re going to die alone. Your half-dozen cats will live off the meat from your rotting bones until they have to start eating each other to survive.
Plus, you’ll be poor because you wasted your life savings on bridesmaid dresses. On a lighter note, you can make a quilt out of the dresses, so you can swathe your tired and decrepit shoulders when you can’t afford heat anymore.
Cough. I don’t know if there’s a polite way to decline. Tell her you can’t afford the dress, and if she wants you in her wedding that badly, maybe she’ll spot you. Tell her in advance, though, in case she has to find a sub. And be prepared for Le Wrath de la Bridezilla.
Just look on the bright side: You’ll be an important part of a good pal’s storied history, your poofy shoulders forever living on in framed photos littering her home’s walls for decades.
And bridesmaids always get laid. #squadgoals