Friday was a close friend’s birthday. She chose to get a room at a bar in our neighborhood for people to come have a few drinks, dance, and spread merriment.
The snow gods had made up for lost time all day Friday, so I was not feeling a fancy outfit. Instead I chose black pants that I paired with a simple tee, a black blazer, and my snow boots. Simple, classic, and practical.
After a few drinks and a few hours, the DJ upped his game. This is the same bar as my pathetic dance incident, so I knew this DJ was going to give me something I could move to. He played all the early 90’s awesome that I live for, including a little Vanilla Ice for the birthday girl.
The Percolator came on and my guy friend that I always dance with pulled me out onto the floor. If you don’t know the dance, here is an informative and educational video to help you understand what I was attempting to do.
Now that you’ve been schooled, I’ll tell you that the dance is actually pretty difficult. I was moving my legs in the “legs knocking” style, and decided to try “dropping down”, you know, ’cause I like embarrassment.
As I dropped, my pants split wide open.
I’m not talking about a simple inner thigh rip, I’m talking a split from the waistband down to nearly my knee.
And then the rip frayed.
I immediately backed into a seat and crossed my legs. My eyes wide with horror, I realized that one side of my butt was pretty much exposed to the elements. To be fair to my curvy figure, the pants were a hand-me-down from a friend and I was actually frustrated earlier in the night because they had bunched up around my thighs. At least I could take a little comfort in the fact that it was the pants, not me, that caused the rip. Still, I sat in that chair for a long moment, completely embarrassed, and then I realized that I had three options:
1. Rock my rip like it’s the latest trend and mock anyone who covers their ass.
2. Leave the party and walk home in shame.
3. Tie my blazer around my waist and keep going.
Since I’m a lady, option one was out. Since I’m now a risk taker, option two was also out. So I hopped off the chair, wrapped my blazer around my waist, and, carefully, kept the party going. I danced a little more, shared my embarrassment with a few friends who helped me decide that this was definitely my risk for the day, and left only when I had become worn out.
Again, since I’m a lady, I did not take a picture of me in the ripped pants, but I did snap a photo the next day because it seems that broadcasting my embarrassment is something I’m in to right now.