Just wanted to say that. Great opener, yes?

Let’s move on.

We all need a council of people that will tell us the truth even when it hurts. If you don’t have such a group, you may want to build that into your life.

(that was the original opener)

No, scratch that. You NEED to build that into your life.

Mine is my pal Karen.

She’s not afraid to tell me when my writing sucks. She’ll call me out when I use a literary trick to get attention. If I tweet out something that’s hacky, I’ll incur her disapproval. She’s a critical and tough broad.

But, you see, I employ her to do hold me accountable to my authenticity.

The bottom line is that I’m not always conscious about what’s in my best interest. I’m not always aware of my true motivations. Sometimes I know exactly what I’m doing when I try to trick the reader using a cute allegory, and I do it anyway.

Karen brings me back to authenticity, which, as I’ve come to believe is the only real goal of life. Brene Brown writes about connection being the most important human quality, but that only through authenticity can connection exist.

Which means that I must get present for my motivations. I need to ask myself before tweeting out something , “Am I really being funny here or am I just looking for attention?” Or, “Is this blog post reflective of what’s really happening a deeper level in my life?”

Most of the time, my authenticity is demonstrated appropriately in this blog. Sure, I fire off a nice crotch joke from time to time, but that’s just because dick humor is awesome. Vagina humor, too. Especially vaginas.

I have in my mental possession a vagina joke so offensive (but hilarious) that is would upset a majority of my readers.

But, I didn’t write the amazing vagina joke. Also, I would be submitting it for shock value. Not authentic.

This blog started out as a bastion for sophomoric humor. And, to be honest, I’m damned good at that stuff. Even a cursory glance through my Top 20 stories will demonstrate that ability. But over time I realized, like Brene Brown teaches, that I really just want to connect. I already know I’m funny.

Could I have the strength to share the pain of divorce or the shame of illegally downloading music or how sometimes I just need a virtual hug? Will that connect with a reader? Does that matter to me? What if nobody comments?

Here’s a current embarrassing truth – I’m close to 100k Twitter followers. In my mind crossing over that threshold means  something important. Of course when I pass that marker nothing will change. The next milestone will be set and I’ll delude myself into thinking that’s the magic number to fulfillment.

After bragging on Facebook and Twitter, I’ll call up Karen. She’ll allow me to boast, congratulate me, and then cut me off. “So, what’s really going on in your life?”

The truth is that I’ve been slacking lately and not writing, yet it’s my favorite daily activity. I’ve become scared of this blog. That I don’t have anything of worth to say. Fear has paralyzed my ability to act. I’m not even sure what I’m afraid of – last year I posted every single day without a miss. This year, barely a hundred published.

So even this post, as all over the place as it is, is a massive step forward. And, I know, that in a few weeks, I’ll be back to my normal self. I will go through highs and lows. From time time I will write shitty pieces. I will brag about accomplishments for attention. I will pepper in dirty one-liners because I’m afraid to publish too serious of a story.

But I will also stand on that precipice where I’m afraid to tell the truth. Most of the time I’ll push through it and lean into the fear. Sometimes I’ll wuss out.

Did you notice that I figured out how to weave in precipice? Full circle, motherfuckers!

Earlier last summer I interviewed young up and coming pop star Kiana Brown. She was fresh off winning the KidzBop competition which is basically the online version of American Idol. It’s a big deal.

She was in the process of releasing her first single, Hey Chica. The song is all about self-acceptance and owning your power as a woman. It’s a great pop song.

Here’s how the whole thing went down. I had interviewed a French painter for this magazine where I was a contributing editor. These LA agents liked the piece because I asked a few wacky questions and reached out to me to interview their client, Kiana. I thought I would publish it in the magazine or submit it to another publication. I didn’t think too far ahead, for if I had I would have realized I didn’t know anyone else in the business.

Then the magazine I wrote for folded.

No problem. I just figured I would submit the story elsewhere. Turns out that getting entertainment interviews published its kind of hard when you have no credits or juice. So, sadly the article never saw the light of day.

I felt like a dick because I had sort of inferred that it wouldn’t be an issue. And that was the end of the article. It died.

Many of you know I’m in a band. We’ve taken a hiatus over the past six months as we’re all focusing on our careers and simply don’t have the time to practice or perform. I miss it and play quite a bit when I’m at home alone.

I’m not sure why this came into my head last weekend, but I was thinking of Kiana and how I had sort of let her down all those months ago.

I was strumming my guitar and I thought it would be fun to figure out an arrangement to her single to see if it sounded cool in a rock and roll style. I figured out how to play it and I kind of liked the way it flowed off the acoustic. I played it heavy and hard.

Then I, on a whim, sent a tweet to Kiana. Told her I wanted to interview her for my podcast and also perform an acoustic, rock version of Hey Chica. She instantly wrote back and was very interested.

We Skyped later that day and we were both pretty pumped. I had forgotten just how young she is – only fifteen. And, truly I loved speaking with her because she was so excited about her career and also playing this song with me. It’s so wonderful how innocent kids are at that age. I did feel like a bit of a creep pitching a song idea to a fifteen year old, but hey, it’s not like I was asking her out.

I’m in process of sending the song over and then we’re going to figure out a way to do it live. Should be a lot of fun and I’ll post it once we get it done.

The book I’m working on is getting near finished and it’s crunch time. I have to put some serious effort in to put this out in January. Since I knew there was no way I could do it myself I reached out to you. And you responded in droves. I couldn’t believe it.

Over thirty people (I lost count) reached out to help. Since I couldn’t pick favorites (I had none because I only consider myself a “favorite”) I figured out a way to use everybody. I’ll talk more about that around book launch, but suffice it to say that I have a lot of people to thank on the acknowledgements page.

Need to research what the hell an acknowledgements page is.

The bottom line is that I had twenty five people who agreed to do some solid work on this book. Like they do on email marketing lists, I made each person double opt in. After they emailed interest I had them watch a short video where I explained exactly what I was doing and the help I needed. Then they had to write back explaining that they were again, in. I wasn’t trying to be a dick, but I knew I needed the double yes to get a commitment. Amazingly, only one person didn’t double-opt in.

I even provided a deadline to help set some structure. While I had all these helpers working for free I did allow them artistic license. Quite a bit of latitude actually. This way they could make their work their own. As I’ve gone back through the assignments I’ve found that many of the editors did some unique and creative things. That’s fine and the ones that just corrected my awful punctuation, grammar, and overindulgence into adverbs are well appreciated, too.

When the deadline came only one person out of twenty-five didn’t make it. That’s twenty-four pieces of work, out of twenty-five, that came in on time and under budget. I assumed half would flake. It’s the holiday season, they’re working for free, I don’t know any of them personally, plus I gave them a bunch of dirty work while I sat back and drank margaritas on Marco Island.

Just kidding. I don’t go down to Florida whenever possible. Well – it’s Florida, that’s why. Ugh.

I was so humbled and appreciative that twenty five people agreed to help. I have five people on backup that were waiting for one to bail. I only had to use one of the five. That is amazing. To say that I am overjoyed is an understatement. You just saved me dozens of hours of work. I still have a few dozen hours left, but I’m not going gray with stress anytime soon because of your efforts. And, if I do, I’m totally breaking out the Sun-In.

Also, I would like to say that my podcast Bloggers are Weird was featured today in iTunes under the New and Noteable section for Comedy. If you haven’t yet checked it out click on the menu at the top of the page or the button on the right. Enjoy!

photo credit: brainware3000 via photopin cc

Getting into it with my parents is not on my must-do list. I’d just rather not. They’re lovely enough people and I just come off like a spoiled brat. Which maybe I am. I mean, they are pretty generous.

Last night we were getting ready to see The Hobbit. My mother had made a fantastic dish of pasta fagioli, one of my favorites. She even served the soup in a breadbowl. How’s that for finesse? Pretty damned finesse-y if you’re asking a white dude named D.J.

It was 5:30pm and the show started at 6:05pm. The food wasn’t quite ready. I told them there was no way we were going to eat and be out the door in twenty minutes. My father started saying, “We can do it – it won’t be an issue.” I knew better, as someone who has a relatively decent sense of timing. There are things I’m not good at – any math beyond fractions, house cleaning, keeping women interested, not eating all the Life Savers I just bought yesterday. Lots of stuff I can’t do well. But I can see the future of being on time or late. And my crystal ball ain’t cloudy.

I dismissively told my dad he was plain wrong and that I knew what was up. As a normal person being told this sort of  thing, he did not appreciate it. In fact he became more adamant we would make it on time. I continued my stance as I knew I was actually right in this instance. We weren’t going to make it on time.

Now, I know there are ten minutes of previews. I don’t need to see the trailer for the next Adam Sandler travesty. But this is the number one movie in America. It’s Friday night. It’s PG13. Kids are out of school for the holiday. It’s party time.

In my family we pass the popcorn back and forth and we need to sit together. Getting there five minutes after the previews started guaranteed that we would be ten feet from the screen staring upwards at Gandolf’s grey bush. I became vigilant that we needed to get their fifteen minutes early and to hit a later screening. This movie was going to be full of fourteen year old dudes who couldn’t get dates. Like me.

Well, my dad and I came to an impasse. He was exhausted arguing with me. He was plenty angry. He was turning to my mother and pointing at me like, “Look at what a shit you raised.” That part was kind of funny. I know it sounds sad, but I was sort of acting like a shit. Fair enough.

We made silent amends and decided the 6:15pm showing was doable. We raced to the theater and into the movie, popcorn in tow (plus the drinks we snuck in).

There was a group of four teenagers sitting near the back. That’s it.

The theater was totally empty.

I turned to my father after we sat down and said, “I could not have been more wrong about this.” I was, not joking, a little bit in shock. It’s like finding out you’re adopted at thirty-six. I don’t know what that’s actually like, but I suspect it’s a little jarring.

That  simile  was poor.  Adoption  and getting late to a movie with no people in it are not relate-able. Screw it! I’m making it  relate-able   You hear me God?!

I felt like a dick. I apologized. All is good again. But it is funny to be super wrong. I know what it’s like to have these moments, and the ability to say you’re sorry is one of the most powerful phrases I know. It not only accepts accountability for being a dick, it also sort-of says, “Hey, I was a dick – get over it.”

I was driving to a doctor’s appointment this evening and talking to the friend I wrote about the other day where I offered to eat her kidney stone. I live in Chicago and it’s impossible to speed. I’m even one of those nerds that does a complete stop at stop signs. I’m not all law-abidin’, though. I turn on red all the time even when there isn’t a turn arrow in the left lane or if there’s a “no turn on red” sign in the right lane. I’m an outlaw when it comes to turning. But, this time I know I was just driving along at 27 mph through downtown Evanston.

In a way I was excited. I knew I hadn’t done anything wrong and I wanted to see what the cop might say. Maybe my taillight was busted. Maybe he was a blog reader and recognized my profile. Maybe he was just lonely and wanted to get weird with someone.

Then it hit me.

Oh shit.

I went from chuckling at the idea of talking to the office to mildly freaking out. I realized I had two problems. First, my registration had expired two months back. My dad pointed it out over Thanksgiving. I must have missed the notice. I mean I hardly drive the car. You all know that I bike to work or ride the subway. I have one of those cars that takes premium and gas is expensive.

Well, it just so happened that I finally got off my fanny and renewed the registration a few days ago. Great timing.

Now the next thing – I didn’t have a new insurance card.

I remember growing up I feel like I got a new State Farm card every two months. I had a stack of those things and I never put them in my wallet. Who had the time to keep swapping them out? At sixteen I had cigarettes to smoke. I was busy.

Since I’ve only been pulled over (before this) twice in my twenty years of driving, I sort of forget that insurance cards are important. I’m insured and all, but don’t feel the need to flaunt it to my wallet every time those cards come in. Years ago I just got into the habit of tossing them. Not a great move.

The officer came up to my window, and while I know I’ve done nothing wrong, this is going to sound, well, not good.

Asked for license and insurance.

I found an insurance card in my wallet that expired back in December of 2011. I handed it to him and explained that I just called State Farm a few days back to order a new card (true). I assured him that I was insured and I was sorry not to have the updated card with me.

Then he said, “I pulled you over because of your registration had expired.” Of course.

Now I had to transition from the card to registration and provide basically the same answer.

I just renewed it this week (also true) online. I hadn’t realized it had been expired but as soon as I did I paid it in full.

He asked if I had any proof. I thought fast.

Yeah, I bet they emailed me a receipt. I’ll look for it!

He said that was fine and went back to his car. I searched through every inch of my deleted folder and inbox. Nothing. But I knew I had paid. He was walking back up when I thought fast.

I’m sorry – I don’t think they sent me a receipt, but I can pull up the credit card charge!

He stood over me as I punched up my bank app and headed to the credit card purchases. There is was – $128 to the state of IL for license renewal. He said that was fine. He also believed me about the insurance.

I’m sure he already knew this and had run the info in his car computer. They must be able to see if your registration is good and if you have insurance. But, even though I think cops are usually the dicks you went to high school with, I’ve always had good experiences. You just have to let them be the boss and give away your power. It’s worked for me.

I’m pretty excited to having gone two for two on pull overs and no tickets. The last time I did get a warning, but I still count it as a win. So, be a dick all you want – I really don’t care. If yelling at me means I avoid a ticket, then go ahead. I’ve been married before. I can take it.

photo credit: gaspi *yg via photopin cc

This will be really short. I don’t normally do “short” (I don’t even respect short people), but this is deserved of visual goodness. The event tonight was a superhero themed party. It was amazing and I can’t begin to tell you of all the hilarious costumes. I can’t because I’ll feel like a dick if I mention one and not all.

So, I’ll just tell you about ours.

My girlfriend Jessica spent three hours sewing in the hotel room to craft the outfit. Last month one of you suggested that we come dressed as HermAphrodite, a combo of the Greek gods Hermes and Aphrodite. I certainly couldn’t come up with anything that brilliant, so we ran with it.

Jessica constructed both a faux-penis and vagina. She, naturally, took the wang. The vagina was so anatomically accurate it even had that stuff that isn’t so pretty coming out of it. It was a big hit, and I owe both the reader and Jessica a huge debt of gratitude.

I can’t find the Facebook post where I took this suggestion, so if it was your idea, please let me know. I want to send you something.

But let me give you an example of my version of this gaffe. Back in college I worked at the local grocery in the photo lab. Most of the people I dealt with were students, usually sorority girls dropping off last night’s drunken formal shots. One of my flirting techniques was to say…

How are you doing today?

Uh fine…

Just fine? It’s not like you have cancer, right? Wait… you don’t have cancer, right?

Ha ha. No!

Good. Because if you had cancer you’d have a legitimate gripe. Things are good!

True!

—

Now, please don’t jump on me. It was fifteen years ago and I was just trying to make women laugh. I wanted dates. It was a lonely period. Strangely, the joke always worked. It doesn’t read like it would, but if you’re sort of smiling and laughing during it, it lands fine.

After doing this same bit over and over it dawned on me. I’m batting 1000 on making women smile with this bit. But one of these days I’m going to say this to some poor girl who either lost her parents to cancer or who has cancer herself. And I will feel terrible.

Cancer just isn’t something to joke about. I was young and immature. But I was smart enough to stop saying extreme things to get laughs.

Well… most of the time.

A few months back, at BlogHer, I was in a session with thirty women. We were in class for several hours and then went to lunch. Since I didn’t know anybody, I just sat with the people in our group. Somehow the topic of strippers came up. I can’t remember why, but I said…

Strippers are great girlfriends as long as you’re not allergic to body glitter and getting knifed.

I thought that was pretty safe considering we, as a society, have judgements about strippers being damanged. I’m not saying they are. I’m saying we generally believe they are.  Everyone laughed. It was a solid joke.

Then one of the women from a few chairs over said, “You realize you’re talking to a sex worker, right?”

The color drained out of my face. Holy crap. I just said a horrible thing about a stripper to a stripper.

So, I backpedaled.

Oh, ha, I was just joking. You know, strippers get a bad rap, and I knew one and she was really cool, and all that nonsense about drugs and daddy issues, it’s just nonsense, and I’m sweating right now, and I just think women should be able to exploit sex from men, I mean you ladies have it hard enough, you know?

Then I asked her what kind of sex worker she was.

“Oh, I’m a dominatrix.”

Wait a sec. A dominatrix is a sex worker? I thought you just kneed guys in the balls or stepped on their dick with high heels.

A dominatrix is a sex-worker.

No, not really. You don’t even have sex with the guy, right?

I deal in sexual activity.

Okay. Sorry for offending you with the talk about strippers.

Nah – I was just kidding. Strippers are nuts.

—

She got me good. I was just grateful I hadn’t offended her. I asked about the business and she said married dudes were the best because they had the most to lose and usually kept their mouth shut. That helped her safety from crazy wives. She also tried to convince me that her sons were normal since they all had good jobs and owned houses. I wanted so badly to ask about how the whole thing works, but I chickened out. I’m just too vanilla and probably would have fainted.

She tried to convince me that one of my good friends was probably seeing a dominatrix. I’m looking your way, Jerry.

After that near-miss, I’m more hesitatnt to make jokes that contain judgement.  Which means I had to throw out a post I had ready to go called, “Old People Smell and It’s Time To Tell Grandpa.”

Actually, you know what? No old people read my blog. Screw ’em! They suck!

Just kidding. I’m sure your Grandfather rocks. Even with all his stank.

photo credit: Chuckumentary via photopin cc

I woke up on Sunday and tried to figure out what to do with my day. Should I break my eighteen year streak of not making church service? As a true competitor I have a record to maintain. Look, it’s true that when I get to church (read: going to somebody’s wedding) I do feel better. But you know what also makes me feel better?  Meet the Press  and an omelette.

Church was out. Also, I know nothing about sports. I mean nothing. The weekends are packed with every collegiate and professional game, and I never know what sports go on this time of year anyway. I know football’s on, but is baseball still around? Basketball isn’t, I don’t think. But then with college sports isn’t it all reversed? Instead of going to Google to sort it out, I just don’t care. I don’t follow any teams anyway. Plus I don’t drink, so hanging out at a bar yelling at a flatscreen is not terrible appealing.

The best thing about not drinking is you get to avoid bars. I spend enough time in bars playing gigs with my band. And, unless you’re into super nachos, bar food usually sucks. Also, hey ladies, throw away the oversized football jersey you wear out. I want to picture you as a woman, you know, with breasts. Nothing is less sexy that a chick with a Peyton Manning jersey drinking a Guinness. Wear a tight sweater and call it a day.

Anyway, I was digressing. Oh yeah, so I found out there was a bacon festival going on at noon.

I’d like to say that I didn’t jump out of bed naked with celebratory horse-dancing like the Korean pop-star Psy, but that would be a lie. I totally did.

Funny enough, this bacon event was taking place in a bar. It’s weird showing up to a bar, to a big food event, by yourself. Why? Because nobody else is there alone. While standing in line for the twenty different restaurants that were going to stuff me with bacon, these two girls behind me asked to take their photo. I used this as an opening to chat them up. Since we were in single-file line the whole time, in my head we were all one group. They had invited me out and they were thrilled to be spending their Sunday with such a great guy.

Then once we got our bacon dishes, ranging from appetizer to dessert, they ditched me. The fantasy in my head did not match their reality.

So I ate alone. Yes, it’s depressing to be standing up at a bar eating bacon ice cream and not being able to turn to someone and go, “Wow – they nailed that shit!” You just have to say it to yourself. Since I had nobody to talk with I probably put down three thousand calories of pork in forty-five minutes.

I said goodbye to the women as I walked by their table. Since we weren’t together or buddies they politely grunted a “bye” and then turned to each other to discuss how it was weird I was there alone. In my universe everyone talks about me once I leave.

On the way home I realized I needed groceries. It was at the deli counter when I noticed it. Waiting in line with that little ticket, I pleasantly left my body and drifted across the counter to the meat slicer. Then I looked around at the seven different potato salads from inside the glass.

I was having a bacon hallucination.

Stumbling around that grocery store high on bacon was both fun and awful. Good times were had as I rolled the cart down the aisles a little faster than socially acceptable. Plus I was smiling like a dick the whole time.  But, if you’ve never gone grocery shopping after a full day at the Chinese buffet, give it a shot. Every food item will make you want to vomit. I was even looking at the Fresca thinking, “I’m pretty sure I couldn’t hold one down right now.”

I made it home and promptly passed out for two hours. It was 1:30pm.

If I had just gone to church this post would have read – “Did some killer kneeling. Decent hymn work. Wore a great tie. Cookies after.”

In my condo I have bay windows in the family room. My windows look out over a courtyard and also across the way at my neighbor’s unit. Since there’s only thirty-three units in the building we all sort of know each other. If you don’t know somebody’s first name you certainly know their face.

I actually haven’t formally met the owner of that unit. I think he just recently bought it, or maybe he was renting it out the first six years. Either way, he’s in there now. I can tell just by looking at him that he’s a nice guy.

Even though we’re told not to judge someone on their looks, can’t we tell, most of the time, whether somebody sucks or not based solely on their looks? I definitely can. People that suck look like they suck.

Well, tonight I am writing this post from my bedroom.  So, why am I not in my family room, the preferred place of writing?

Because my neighbor is having a party on his porch. We have these huge wooden decks (never figured out the difference between porches and decks) that you probably associate with Chicago. They’re 10’x20′. He’s got fifteen guys sitting on his porch having cocktails and talking.

My plan tonight was to sit at my coffee table and write. What I mean by this is to literally sit on the floor with my back against the  couch and legs under the table, with the laptop on top. It’s very comfortable to me, but I’m sure it looks completely stupid to anyone else.

The truth is that I don’t want these fifteen guys seeing me do this. Okay, fine, so I just won’t write. I just ordered a video game and I’ll play that. No, I don’t want them to see an adult playing a video game. Fine, I’ll watch Doctor Who. No, I don’t want them to see me alone on a Saturday night watching television.

I know this is a shame thing. By thinking they’re looking at me (they’re not), I assume they’re judging me (they’re not) and that somehow shames me for not doing more responsible “adult” activities. It also must mean that I have no friends (I have friends). So, I am self-banished to my room because I don’t want them to see the real me. In a way it’s kind of funny – I sent myself to my room because I’ve been bad.

And I’m just waiting for them to go out for the evening. Now, I have big curtains, and technically I could close them on the guys. But I would feel like a dick doing that, and I wouldn’t want them to think I was pissed at them.

So, I won’t shut the blinds. I can’t stay there because I don’t want them to see me. I’m in my room.

I’m thirty-six years old and not socially awkward. I’m 100% convinced I could go over and hang out with these men. They appear to  be friendly dudes. But I won’t go.

This only happens like twice a year, so I’m not constantly removing myself from view, but it is indicative of my self-judgment. I can’t wait until I can just think, “Oh yeah, I guess there are a bunch of people over there partying. Good for them. Hey, that sexy Cinemax movie is coming on – let’s peel down to my skivvies and flip it on!”

Okay, I went too far there. I just wanted to say “skivvies.”

So, I’m going to do something courageous (at least to me). I’m about done writing. I’m going to head into my family room, turn the lights on, and start playing my video game in full view of the party. And everything will be okay and nobody will point and laugh. I’ll be uncomfortable but I’ll forget they’re there after an hour or so.

Oh, and nobody tweet me during the Cinemax movie that comes on at 10:30pm – I’m going to be busy. VERY BUSY.

photo credit: Troy McClure SF via photo pin cc

Now while this sounds like  shtick  masquerading  as filler since I don’t have any ideas of what to write tonight, I will tell you that is correct. Plus, I just got out of the bath and was nude already. The only thing I’m wearing is the laptop on my thighs and a wet dog around my shins. She had her bath at the same time. With me. Totally sexed out, ladies?

Okay – this just hit me. Where do I feel the most insecure and naked? I don’t mean emotionally or figuratively. I mean, where do I actually feel naked physically?

It’s not when I’m actually naked. I don’t shut my blinds and I live alone so walking around from the shower to the kitchen is no big deal. I’m not an animal – I make sure my neighbors aren’t hanging out on the porch first.

I’m pretty comfortable with my body. Except when I dance.

Not kidding at all when I say I feel the most naked dancing at weddings. It’s terrifying for me. And it makes no sense since I have fantastic rhythm, I play in a band, and I understand how to count to four. When I took a dance class in college (with my sister), she said I was one of the best dancers there.

And, oh yeah, ten years ago I worked for a beer company and took a truck that opened up into a fully functioning nightclub all over the country. I danced my fanny off for nine months.

Thinking about it, why am I worried now about dancing? Well, first, I have no moves. So, it’s a loss of control thing. I don’t know what to do. I’m not joking when I say I have no moves. I literally don’t know what to do with my feet.

Before I got married, my now ex-wife and I did eight lessons at Evelyn Wood and perfected a several minute routine for our wedding. Not to be one of those douchey couples trying to impress everyone – we just needed to know what to do with our feet.

I see my friends at weddings jumping all around the dance floor having fun and they don’t know fat dick about dancing. But they haven’t a care so it works. I have absolutely no fun dancing. It’s scary and I can’t wait for it to stop. Even the slow dances with my girlfriend are uncomfortable. I feel like I can’t even do that right.

I’m aware that nobody at a wedding is watching me. I also know I have rhythm and can at least fake it. I just want to be able to let go and have a good time like everyone else. But I’m not sure how.

This is about me needing to control how I’m perceived. I place myself in situations where I can manipulate the variables to the outcomes I desire. Since I have no dance moves, I have no control and I don’t think I’m “looking good.” Therefore, I’m exposed and vulnerable. And that is scary, and scary is bad.

I honestly believe that my well-being can be measured in my ability to dance at weddings in front of my friends. My goal in life is to learn to let go of that control and trust in my vulnerability. While I can’t do it on the dance floor, I often do it here.

Every time I’ve shared a hard truth on the blog, I’ve been rewarded with kindness. I’m glad that you are here to soothe me when I reveal something difficult.

Bottom line – I need to get out to more weddings. Here’s what I want from you:

Invite me to a shitload of weddings. I don’t care if it’s a second cousin or that creepy chick with the adult braces from accounting. Hook me up with a date and time. I own a  cumber bun so I’m all set.

I’ll probably start out with that electric slide garbage, since it’s easy, move up to a  Viennese  waltz, and then, over time showcase some serious popping and locking.

Note to self – buy book on popping and locking.