I’m talking to you, lumbering dude, whose man paws have baby toddler legs for fingers. It is sort of cute at cocktail hour when you say you are hoping to get lucky in love. Lots of people get lucky at weddings. Not you, friend, and here is why.
Alcohol breaks down the brain connections needed to process social cues. So, you miss it when the married woman you are manhandling on the dance floor is uncomfortable. Clearly, you don’t see the two-carat taken sign on her left finger when you invitegrab her to dance with you. You are really surprised when, in an effort to avoid being mounted in public, she asks if you are married. Your revulsion is probably genuine when you find out she has a husband. What a slut, leading you on like that. You feel angry, betrayed. It’s so confusing, these subtle lady signals. Luckily for her, your disgust provides enough distraction for her to escape your electric slide.
Unluckily for me, I spin into your orbit.
No, I don’t want you to cut in on me and my girlfriend. If I were a dude, you wouldn’t dare. Yes, we do “like” each other, thank you. We’ve been together for over a decade.
I try to temper your advances by letting you twirl my lady around the dance floor once. You are a friend of the groom. This is all in good fun. Then you paw her. That is unacceptable. I interrupt.
Now I am dancing with you. Why am I dancing with you? Is it because I don’t want to hurt your feelings? Is it because I don’t want to cause a scene?
Your breath is a mixture of fetid steam and lighter fluid.
No, I don’t like country music.
No, I don’t want to go to Stagecoach with you and your buddies. No, not even if everyone in the house is cool with girls who like girls.
No, I don’t want your baby toddler legs interlaced with my fingers. You can keep your meat mitts to yourself, thank you.
You sense that I am looking for an exit. Looking to get off your merry-go-round.
Congratulations! You almost picked up on a real social cue.
And, no, I’m not standoffish. You’re drunk.