Last night I went to a Big Stoopid Gala to support my friend L., who was on the event committee. I knew no one. But it was fun and a great event.
After dinner, I made a pit stop. As I exited the ladies’ room, the DJ started playing “I’ve Had the Time of My Life” from Dirty Dancing. The people? Went nuts. There was much dancing. And as I walked past the dance floor, a man grabbed me and started twirling me around and dancing.
I embrace life. I went with it. I’m not a great dancer and my shoes were killing me, so it took me a moment or two to realize that it wasn’t just my lack of moves that caused me to feel on the verge of falling – it was Mr. Dance Guy’s lack of balance. And his total, complete inebriation.
I went with it. And never have I realized how frickin’ long that song is. But then Mr. Dance Guy put his hand on my rear and all bets were off. I pushed him away. “Watch it, buddy.”
“Hey!” he replied. “Sorry – you are just so attractive. Would it help if I told you I’m a doctor?”
Seriously? Did I come here for dinner or a pap smear?
“No, it wouldn’t help,” I said. “I’m not impressed.”
“You’re a smart girl,” he leered. “What’s your name?”
Oh, hell no. “My name is Lola.”
He nodded and smirked. “Lola. Yeah. My name is Rajesh. Are you a doctor too?”
Uh? Sure. “Yes. Yes, I’m a doctor.”
He smiled. “Yeah, I thought so. Smart, good girls are doctors or lawyers. What sort of doctor are you? Pediatrician? Or gynecologist?”
Oh, shit. It’s been a long time since I’ve mindfucked a drunk. “I’m a psychiatrist.”
He appeared nonplussed. “Where do you practice? What hospital? I’m at St. Joseph’s.”
So, obviously I’m not at St. Joseph’s. “I’m not at a hospital – I have a private practice.”
He nodded. “Do you know what kind of doctor I am? I’m a gastroenterderlerologist. My mom would like you. She doesn’t like the girls I date and wants to know why I’m not married. She wants babies. But I go to the gay bars all the time because I get so much (word I’m not going to type on my blog) there. The girls? Their defenses are down and I get laid all the time!”
I could not buh-lieve that I was having this conversation, and that this guy considered this conversation flirting. I tried to remove myself from the situation, which was sort of like looking away from a car crash. Or Rock of Love Bus.
“Listen, I’m not the girl you’re looking for. I have to go find my friends.”
“You think just because I’m Indian that I’m not a good lover?”
WHAT? It was also about this time that I realized he was so drunk he was almost cross-eyed.
“Listen,” he said, as I continued to back away from him, matching his advances step for step. “I went to a Catholic school in India. Do you know how we started every day? Dear Lord, in heaven, hallowed name, thy kingdom on Earth as heaven, daily bread …”
Evidently, in Catholic schools in India, they teach an abbreviated version of The Lord’s Prayer. Who knew?
After he finished his “prayer,” Mr. Dance Guy leaned in. “I bet I have a better vocabulary than you do.”
And this is when I couldn’t help myself. I laughed in his face. I almost fell down I was laughing so hard. I know enough about the English language to know that gastro – whatever docs deal with bile. And Mr. Dance Guy was obviously well suited for the job.
I just walked away. And about 20 minutes later, security kicked Mr. Dance Guy out of the event.