Love Among the Pizza Boxes

What the hell do you wear when dancing?
What do you wear when you’re a guy and go dancing?
So I rummage around Ginny’s room for a shirt.
And she paws at my leg.
I turn to face her. “What?”
She’s got a shirt in her mouth. She sets it down and paws at it once.
I pick it up.
Sigh.
Fine.
I’ll just wear this.
It’s a navy button-down.
Like the one I was wearing the other day when Shayla was here – except that one was white.
Anyways.
Pants.
I can’t go dancing in a shirt and boxers.
What kind of pants am I supposed to wear?
Probably not jeans.
Do I own any other kinds of pants?
God, I’m not ready for this.
What the hell am I supposed to wear?
I sound like I’m getting married.
For some reason I’ve been thinking about marriage a lot lately.
Anyways.
Pants.
I groan. And I sit down and stare at my feet. And I hold my head. And I groan again.
I can’t dance.
I can’t dance and I don’t own the right kind of pants.
That rhymes.
I’m a poet and I didn’t know it.
That sounds familiar.
What am I gonna do?
I lay back on Ginny’s bed.
She hops up and licks my temple.
“What am I gonna do, girl?” I ask her, and pat her head. “I can’t dance.”
Her tail slows down a bit.
“I’m screwed.”
And not in the good way.
What?
Maybe I should cancel the date.
No.
That’d make me seem bad.
Like a bad boyfriend.
Because bad boyfriends cancel dates at the last minute.
But I’m not a bad boyfriend.
Or at least, I try not to be.
Am I a bad boyfriend?
“Aw, God…” I run my hands down my face.
I can’t dance.
I don’t dance.
It’s just not physically possible for me to dance.
I’m like that one guy on Dancing With the Stars. What’s his name – Buzz, I think it is.
Anyways. He was the old dude who went up into space.
He can’t dance.
But he can dance better than me.
That’s just how bad I dance.