Keep it Classy

It was Thursday night. My friends and I had gathered at Beatrice and Woodsley for a very merry Unbirthday Party. The restaurant was perfect with it's aspen trees wrapped in yarn and bathrooms with hidden doors. When you pulled the lever to turn on the water, it trickled down a cascading line of silver beads. This place was seriously whimsical. Their cocktails where potent, even during the happy hour, and I had my fair share (which led to me singeing the sides of a 10 dollar bill and telling everyone it looked like it had survived the civil war, followed by hysterical laughter only on my part).

Later, we ventured to the Shag Lounge. A hipster watering hole only popular on Thursday and Sunday nights (because hipsters are far too evolved to be held down by the confines of traditional Friday and Saturday night goings-on). Mr. Nice Guy and his brother showed up. I was decently buzzed, probably a little beyond that actually. Just enough to be brave. I was impressing even myself. We were dancing but I wasn't stepping over any boundaries because I still wasn't sure if my feelings were reciprocated. We were talking and laughing and taking pictures together. My friends watched in the background, giggling at my smooth advances on this boy who, at this rate, I would surly be winning over later in the night.

I later knocked a drink out of my friends hand. I bought her a shot to apologize. And then another, and another. All whiskey. We joined our group on the dance floor. My dancing was getting a little more wild and... well sloppy. I decided that Mr. Nice Guy should, no NEEDED to, know how to do my patented dance move (usually reserved for dance parties in my living room with girlfriend and wine shooters), "Wash the Body." Basically it involves me violently running my hands in circles all over my body. It also involves some hip action and knee bounces that at the time felt So You Think You Can Dance worthy, but in reality... I don't want to think about it. He was generous enough, but his back was turned to me more and more after that.

Later, the girls decided to go the bath room, I headed to the secret corner where I had hidden my purse behind a chair. The journey to the purse involved me tripping at least four times. Not just little scuffs, but full out biffs. Knees bent, hands on the floor. Bad combination in a short skirt. It certainly wasn't my classiest moment.

Mr. Nice Guy is fairly straight laced and I haven't really heard from him since.

Fail.

PS- I recently heard he plans to join the Israeli Army.

Of course he does.

{photo from here}