if it was all in email
I’d be a rock star
Here’s a nice story that shouldn’t be embarrassing, but it is:
The wee one had dance class this morning. It was awesome, as usual. It stuns me how he is able to stand in a line, pay attention, follow directions, etc. all while having never done any of the same at home.
Anyway, dance class was over and the teacher, was chatting with the moms about the upcoming recital (it’s not until April, but the costumes have to be ordered really soon). She was saying how the wee one is going to be the super star of the recital because he’s the only boy (and because, of course, he’s cute and smart, etc.).
At first she said she wanted to get him a tux to wear, but the problem is that a tux won’t match the costumes she wants for the girls. She showed a picture of the possible little girl costumes and they were adorable – green leotard with little fairy wings attached at the back. And a pink crown.
So the teach was all, “I just don’t know what do with the wee one, though, a tux isn’t going to match at all” and I said he could just be Peter Pan – it would totally match the little girl costumes.
Here’s where my social ineptness comes in… the teacher freaks. She’s all “You’ve made my day! That’s perfect!” and she hits me. Like whack, right in the arm. Just kind of a smack with the catalogue she was showing us. So what do I do? This is so embarrassing… I blush and look at the floor while I say something moronic like “he can have a hat.”
I was completely unable to joke around. I had no funny retort or “bah, it’s nothing” hand motion. I blushed and looked at the floor. Like she was FLIRTING with me or something. Now, I know she wasn’t flirting with me, but my reaction was the same as it used to be in high school when boys would slug me or flick me in the ear or something like that.
What do you say when a veritable stranger smacks you in a friendly way? I’m just not a real handsy person. I don’t know how to react. I wish I knew how to smack people back and be all, “GET OUT” like Elaine on Seinfeld, but, alas, my jokey social skills are stunted from about the 9th grade.
Anyway, I know this is the dumbest reason to be embarrassed ever, but I’m mortified that I blushed at the dance teacher.
Mor. Ti. Fied.