Postmaster Funk

It has recently come to my attention that I’ve still got it. You know, that certain little something that can occasionally get you attention at the bar? Boobs, I’ve heard it called. I’m just kidding of course! Due to the magnitude of my belly, my boobs are rarely given their due these days.

Anyway, the point is that the siren song of the chubby and rapidly aging stay at home mother in her only good shirt and an underwire bra is one that never, ever goes out of style.

How did I come to this realization?

Allow me to set the scene. It all began when I went out with my beautiful and amazing friend for her birthday…

As I was sitting next to the witty and vivacious birthday girl sipping my drink, someone on the dance floor caught my eye.

He was tall, aggressively bald, and extremely large. Being a chubby lady myself, I’m not one to harp on size . However, to paint the proper mental picture, it must be said that this man weighed 400 lbs at the minimum and was the sort of big that is perfectly round rather than flabby. Dressed in a blue short sleeved button down shirt and black slacks, his outfit gave the unfortunate impression of a giant mailman, as my best friend’s brother hilariously pointed out.

This giant mailman and his diminutive, fresh to death, majestically-honed-facial-hair having friend, were dancing with abandon in the middle of the floor. It was a performance that I considered to be a perfect mixture of just having fun and self deprecation.

“Postmaster Funk” and his partner were pulling out some major hip hop moves and there was even a bulky man’s version of break dancing thrown in the mix that involved rolling around on the floor a bit.

When they sat down near me afterward and I couldn’t resist leaning over and say/yelling, “That’s the best dancing I’ve seen all night!”

Had I only known that I was setting into motion not only the confirmation of my remaining mojo, but also a distinctly upsetting turn of events.

The music was good, the company was better, and I was shaking it like a Polaroid picture with one of my favorite people in the entire world. As I shook, I caught sight of something out of the corner of my eye.

He was gliding around the dance floor like a giant human pirate ship, his shiny round head acting as a sort of flesh colored version of a jolly roger, marking his approach and striking fear into the hearts of the other vessels (aka ME), he had in his sights. I didn’t stand a chance, I was just a sitting duck floating out there in the middle of the dance floor, waiting to be picked off.

I don’t make a habit of dancing with men other than my husband. It’s just weird and awkward. However, as the “Good Ship Mailman” approached, signaling its intention of cutting a rug with me, I saw it not as an advance but as a sign of friendly recognition of our mutual appreciation of comedic dance.

Thus, we boogied down, me doing my hilariously bad version of hip hop dancing, and him doing his hilariously bad version of break dancing. I was busting out moves that should really never be busted, having a grand old time making a complete ass out of myself. At a certain point, I was even doing the running man, which isn’t easy for a lady of my proportions.

Yes, we were all having a great time.

That is, until I happened to glance over to the side of the dance floor. There stood “Fresh to Death”, his iPhone clutched in his elfin hand. He was recording our appalling dancing. He was RECORDING IT!!!

As I stared at him in dawning horror, I felt a looming warmth at my back. A giant peach colored paw appeared from behind me and wrapped around my ample middle, dragging me towards the repulsive dewiness of the man it was attached to.

Oh dear God, no. No, no, no, no, no!!!!!!!!!

This gentleman was no gentleman! He was attempting to… And believe me, I’m sorry to subject my dear readers to such filth… But there is no way around it. He was attempting to dirty dance with me. That’s right, he was. And it is forever preserved in the memory chip of a man with a facial hair chinstrap.

My “je ne sais quoi” was validated by the unwanted grind attack of a man twice my age and quadruple my girth, who was attempting to immortalize the whole thing on film. Is there anything sadder?

It is one thing to comedically dance with a 400 lb human pirate ship. It is another thing entirely to end up on YouTube in a video that could only be labeled “Two Fatties Dancing.”

Because of my amazingly quick reflexes (or his amazingly slow ones, it’s hard to say which), I was able to escape his grasp almost immediately and put my hand over the imp’s iPhone like a celebrity on TMZ as I walked off of the dance floor. It was sort of awesome in a way, because when am I going to ever get a chance to be all “indignant celebrity” again, but mostly it was just humiliating.

I ended up dodging the grasp of those peach colored paws at several more intervals during the night with some of my exceedingly fancy footwork. But not before I was forced to endure the snippets of his fairly upsetting life story that he yelled at me across the dance floor and after he followed me to my table. Oh, the curse of irresistible charm!

And that concludes this woeful tale my friends.  I guess if this story had a moral, it would be that just because you see someone dancing badly, it doesn’t mean they’re doing it on purpose.  Beware the husky man dancing!

Have a wonderful week, and may you never have to make a phone call that begins with, “Hey Babe! I just wanted to let you know that I might end up on YouTube…”

2 thoughts on “Postmaster Funk”

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