4.06.2013

Confessional.



Noun: An enclosed stall in a church divided by a screen or curtain in which a priest sits to hear people confess their sins.
Adjective: (esp. of speech or writing) in which a person reveals or admits to private thoughts or past incidents, esp. ones that cause shame or...

If you’re taking a picture and you advise me to smile I can guarantee I will look like a fool. I can’t smile on cue. To me, this is a positive quality. Who wants to be the master of a fake smile? My smiles are genuine. If I am smiling you know it means something. That being said, just because I am not smiling does not mean I am not enjoying myself. I often find myself being approached by strangers (always while out at a bar or club so maybe it is just an excuse to talk to me because I am so irresistible?!) questioning if I am enjoying myself or not...
I must have looked extremely bored last night because I have never been confronted by so many people of the opposite sex in one night acknowledging their concern. In all fairness, the guy to girl ratio was about 5:1, and I am most likely being generous with my estimate.  Let me first confirm that I was having fun, although usually once the clock hits two AM I begin to lose interest in all that is around me. This is the problem when you surround yourself with people who are three to five years younger than you. I know, I know, the difference sound minimal, but trust me when I say that I never thought those few years would make such a difference. As well,  I was breaking in a new pair of four inch single sole pointy pumps. So excuse me if I was no longer smiling after one forty-five AM.
Last night also concludes how oh so awkward I can be.

Perpetrator number one: he caught me off guard by sneaking up from behind me.
Him: You don’t look like you are having a fun time.
Me: *wondering why he cares* I’m just tired.
Him: Do you like this place? (Or do you come here often? – I can’t remember really. But something along these lines)
Me: Ya this place is cool, it’s just really packed tonight and I’m tired. *clearly not interested in yelling into his year to be heard*
Him: I’m _____, what’s your name? (I obviously can’t remember his name)
Me:  (Did I tell him my name?)
There may have been a few other lines of non interesting small talk included.
Then he was gone. One point for me in succeeding to come across as not interested; if you are shorter than me when I am in heels I am usually not interested (I am naturally five foot three so to be taller than me even in heels is not expecting much).

Victimizer number two: he was also short (maybe my height requirement is asking for too much?!) however he caught me at an actual bored moment so I enjoyed his humor.
Him:  You girls look like you’re bored (this is when my friend left me to fend for myself ; her being naturally five foot six and wearing six inch heels resulted in him being way too short to humor her.)
Me: I don’t think I said anything; I gave my friend an appropriate dirty look for leaving me.
Him: Tell me where you are from and I’ll be able to figure you out.
Me: You want to know where I live?
Him: No, like where you are from.
Me: Well I’m from Canada. *I know that he means, I just like to prove a point that if you are born in Canada you are Canadian; I’m stubborn like that*
Him: You’re not Canadian, I can tell by your eyebrows.
Me: My eyebrows?
Him: Yea, Canadian girls don’t have wonderful eyebrows like yours.
Me: *my interest perks up because we all know how much I enjoy intriguing convo and no one has ever commented on my eyebrows before* Well I was born in Canada, so I am actually Canadian.
Him: I mean, what’s your background?!
Me: My mother is Italian and my father is Irish.
Him: Ahhh. You see, I knew your eyebrows were too nice to be Canadian. Now, would you like to join me at the bar for a drink?
I ponder for a few seconds, glancing around for my friend and find her a few feet away dancing up a storm. My feet hurt way too much to dance; I approve the move to the bar. Little did I know I was being pulled through a mob of people to a bottle sitting on the bar surrounded by his friends; he pours the shots of pure vodka (let’s pause to recognize the fact that if a guy is giving you a shot of pure vodka you can almost be certain that he is under the age of thirty, closer to twenty-five), I cheers with a bunch of people I don’t know, feel someone spill their shot all over my new shoes and when I look up the eyebrow commentator is gone. Not that I was interested, more entertained, but taking into account I was deserted and left standing alone and confused for a good ten seconds, minus one point for me.

Antagonist number three: the final conversation of the night, and by far my favourite. By this time it is three AM and I am standing in front of the DJ booth watching my drunken friend dance with the DJ.

Him: (in French) You know had you of gone in there with as much confidence as her you would have probable got him.
Me: *looking confused* (in English) That’s OK , I don’t want him.
Him: (still in French) I’m just saying, you could have been her.
Me: (in English) I just want my jacket.
Him: *realizing that I am not standing in front of the DJ booth in jealousy and that  I’m just waiting for my drunk friend to end her dance off and get our jackets which are in the booth –he laughed* (speaking in English with an obvious French accent) Oh OK. Do you speak French because my English is not very good?
Me: *really not wanting to make an effort* A little. But your English is good.
Him: (still in English) Look I’m not trying to pick you up, I have a girlfriend, but since I am making an effort to speak to you in English, you should say something to me in French.
Me: *For some reason I feel shy* No, now I'm being put on the spot (I hate being put on the spot).

So this banter goes on  for awhile. I don’t give in and do not switch or even say a word  to him in French;  he continues to speak to me in English. Meanwhile my friend gives me my coat and walked away, and yet I stay put to continue my conversation with this stranger. He intrigues me by telling me he wants a girl’s opinion on a situation. He proceeds to tell me a story about how his current girlfriend (who he really likes) is angry because he has a box with old pictures and what not of his ex girlfriend. The new girlfriend wants him to burn everything but he doesn’t want to get rid of these memories, even though he assures me his is over his ex. I tell him to get rid of it all. He continues to argue his points; poor guy has no idea I’ve been in this position of having to deal with a boyfriend who kept photos of his ex; he will never win me over with his arguments. I continue to tell him that if he thinks his current girlfriend is someone he wants to be with forever then he should make her happy and do as she says. My friend then starts signaling it is time to leave.
Me: I have to go now.
Him: OK, thanks for your help (He is still speaking English)
Me: Bonne Chance *and I genuinely smile*

He starts laughing and congratulates
me on my clever switch to French. One point for me.

Why is it always the ones who are taken that peak my curiosity the most? 

Minus one point; back at zero.
Merde.

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