White Boy at the Black Sorority Meeting (part two)

Continued from part 1

This is the second installation in a two-part FCeriseN (because that's the only letter that will make a soft "S" sound). To get caught up, go back and read part one or check out the spark note version in the next paragraph. Good choice; I was going to go with the spark notes too.

In part one (you have yet another chance to click the link!), Reginald decided that my social life needed a hormone injection and decided to bring me to the epicenter of ethnic and estrogen pride (the social equivalents of diethylhexyl and polyisobutylene, click here if you're not a nerd. Gotcha! You can actually read the explained joke here, but then again "a joke explained is a joke disdained"). Reginald took me to a local spring of vivacious ethnically secure females: a meeting of the Alpha Kappa Alpha sorority. I had just made contact when the FCN post-size limit was enforced and I had to split my tome into two parts (send complaints here).

Did I mention that Reginald is buff? His chest and arms are sculpted and toned like a Greek god. His work on his body had rendered his torso a piece of work. My physique -- detailed now and again on these illustrative pages -- has the appeal of a slightly masticated worm, albeit with some definition in its pectoralis major. Yes, that is definition. Sometimes definition looks like flab when it gets tired of being defined all the time. No, I do not need any additional articles of clothing to support my pectoralis. Thank you for offering. Neither do I appreciate that your subtle insinuations are slowly eroding my tender body image. Stop it, please. People like you are why I need to spend thousands of dollars on professional psychological therapy. Next to Reginald, I admit, I look like a pre-pubescent youth with post-pubescent pecs; an overgrown schoolboy, who's biceps have yet to catch up with his imagination.

I don't know why I just described myself that way. It's really very unflattering. For me it creates a feeling similar to what Heidi Montag must feel when she opens the National Enquirer: "That's not true; how awful of them to print that." Except in Heidi's case, she has invited the criticism by prancing around the known world in just slightly more clothing than a chimpanzee would wear at the zoo. And in my case, I wrote the unflattering comments about myself. Actually, now that I think about it, the two feelings are completely dissimilar, but I was able to mention Heidi Montag, so perhaps it was worth it. In fact, these last two paragraphs were an entirely unnecessary self-effacement. It's also something I'll have to bring up with my therapist.

So, back at the black sorority meeting, I was struggling to come up with something to talk about. Buff Reginald flitted around with an elusive social grace, twittering with the fairer sex and returning their bavarderie like Roger Federer returns tennis balls, minus the spin and long hair. At first I tried to be still and look innocent, but that never works. Then I tried to be invisible. I imagined I was a character from Tolkien, sliding my finger into a ring and disappearing. Someone asked me if I was okay, so I stopped doing that.

That's when the food arrived. I may not always be the greatest people person, but I'm a great food person. You throw me a plate with a little grub -- nothing fancy, mind you; I intend to survive almost exclusively on microwave victuals if my love life continues at its laggard pace -- and I am occupied like a toddler with an abacus.

Sometime when I was eating, a woman named "Natasha" started talking to me. I happened to know that her name meant "birthday" -- just something I read somewhere when I should have been doing something else -- and the news surprised her! How can you have a name and not know the meaning of it? What if you were named something terrible like "milktoast" or "hebetudinous"? Wouldn't you want to know so you could skedaddle down to the courthouse and get that changed? Other names I turned down after discovering their meanings were "daft," "torpid" and "banana." "Hebetudinous" was on my shortlist for a firstborn until I found out what it meant, now it takes a back burner -- well behind "milktoast."

Natasha makes a lot of sense for a name, since most people are named on their birthday. It's a wonder more people aren't named that. Natasha must have appreciated my insight because she laughed and we started talking.

Long story abbreviated, I met a bunch of Natasha's friends, all AKA members. They all wanted to know what their names meant, so I made some terms up and tried not to offend people. Just when I was nearing the end of my line of jokes (it doesn't take very long), the music came on. It was Lady GaGa's "Just Dance." And so we started dancing.

Just so everyone knows. I am an expert at dancing. It's like I've been dancing -- seriously dancing -- ever since I watched a particular video on YouTube. Not Evolution of Dance, silly. 100 million people have seen that. It's so unoriginal. I saw a 3 minute video that gives a whole bunch of new moves. And less than a million people have seen it, which makes me, you know, one in a million. Now I am sharing it with you. Here it is:




My personal favorite is the "Wii remote," but I've got most of the moves down pat. And let me tell you what, they were a hit at the AKA sorority meeting. I was so popular. I didn't want to leave. Reginald came and said we had to go, but I wanted to try out "The Dictator" again and Natasha asked me to teach her "The Bus Driver."

Reginald is stronger than me (see, the buff paragraph did serve a purpose) and he was able to wrest me away. But I really want to go back next year and show off some more moves. I've been practicing...