So you didn't want soup? My bad.

I was never asked to a dance till my Senior prom. At the school I went to, every grade was allowed to go to Prom and every dance in exsistance. We were too small to limit Prom to just the seniors. There'd be 55 of us just roaming like lost cattle on the dance floor. What I mean is that there were chances for me to be asked to a dance. I'm not complaining, though. I mean whatever, I've heard it before, I'm too pretty for the boys, I intimidated boys with my muscles and intellect,  blah blah blah. SURE.

I'm just saying that I was always the one taking dates. I asked a boy to every girl's choice dance except my freshman year, which I wish I had because I ended up being the 13th wheel at dinner and all activities.

I know.

I put in effort. Did my hair, wore makeup that didn't come off for a week, and put on a bra. A real bra. That's a feat for me. You must understand.

It was Winter Formal of my Junior year of high school. My friend Emily had this boyfriend that kind of looked like Ron Weasley (and I still say that's where the love all started). She told me she could set me up with his little brother for this dance. He was an attractive soul, so who was I to say no?

The night of the fateful dance arrived. My blind date was soon to be in the same house as me. I curled my hair, applied some deodorant, because that's the most needed thing in this world (or in my world),  and put on a dress that my mom thought was a little too low cut.

*flashback*

"Jeannie. That seems a little low cut."
"Mom. It's not like I have boobs that even fill out this dress. I'm practically stuffing my bra."
"What do you expect though, when you're slow dancing with a boy? He'll be able to see your cleavage. Your boobs. They're just...well they're just right there."
"I don't know if you can tell or not, but uh. I don't have cleavage. I barely even have boobs. So if all he's trying to do is see my boobs he'll have to do much more work then just look down my dress, because if he does look down my dress, all he'll see are my feet."

*real time*

So there I was, cleavage-less and all. Primped, proper, and ready to dance my ass off.
This kid, we'll call him Stan, comes in and I see him for the first time in all my life. Awkward doesn't even begin to cover it.

Well it actually wasn't that bad, I'm just being dramatic over here, surprise surprise.

The point is that we had never met, and now we had to spend the whole evening together, eating, dancing, bowling even, and enjoying each others company. I didn't mind though. He was attractive, and younger than me. Am I a cougar? I mean, there's a chance.

This is where the story begins my readers of the world!

After Stan and I took our dance picture out on the balcony, we just ended up making out the rest of the night. We didn't dance, we just hung out in the girl's bathroom and made out.

END OF STORY.

ha. Ya no. That's not what happened. That's never...happened...*cries a bit*

So we went to dinner. We went to this Sushi restaurant downtown. It was a smooth place to be. We had to take off our shoes and everything! Real talk. It was hard-core.

I was sitting next to the window and he was next to the aisle. Emily was sitting across from me, her Ron Weasley across from his little brother, and then my friends Katie and Oli were at the end of the table. It was perfect. Everything was great. Laughs were happening, and Stan and I didn't really have to make awkward small talk, because everyone was just talking, at all times.

We ordered and then all sat around and dazzled in each other's company. Finally, when the clock struck midnight, or well, when it struck about 8:17 ish, our food arrived in the arms of our waitress.

Stan was about to drink his bowl of Miso soup and I was as eager as could be to get the food onto the table so I could eat all of it. SO. At the precise moment I stuck my flaling arm across the table to get it from the waitress, Stan lifted his bowl up to his face.

What happened next? Well in case you haven't gotten there yourself, the timing was so perfect that I punched Stan's bowl of soup. Just punched it out of his hands and onto his lap, or onto his face, onto his shirt, tie, onto my dress, but worst of all, onto my pride.

I did't move. I just stared out the window for a good 2 minutes before I decided to crank my head to the left and see the damage I had done.

Soup. That was all I could see now. There was practically a soup cloud from the soup evaporating, or there would have been given the right temperature, the right time, and the possibility that that were even possible.

"I'm. *pause* So. *pause* Sorry."
"This is my dad's suit..."
"I'm. *pause* SO. *pause* Sorry." I wanted to curl up into some sort of position, preferably the fetal one, and just kind of lie there for awhile.

What a scene. I was like Mike Tyson for a moment. Hands up, at the ready, planning out my every move. He's lifting up the bowl now? OKAY STRIKE. *punch. bam. pow. blood. guts. eyeballs falling out. a sailboat in the distance yelling "land ho!"*

I tried to clean him up with my tongue ...I mean towel slash napkin, but it did nothing. We were the "smelling-like-soup" couple the rest of the night. That was my nickname for forever.
"Hey soup girl!"
"It's actually cup-for-pants! Thankyou" (you'd only think that were maybe kinda sorta funny if you've read all my posts...have you? eh?)

I kept apologizing throughout the night. Probably not my best move. Not very smooth. But I was young. Naive. Smelling like soup. My mind was not in the game! I guess it's for the best I was only asked to one dance, who knows what sort of things would have happened on all those other dates. Oh boy.

I'll tell you this though, Stan's butt was nice to look at when we went bowling.

*thinking back*
That butt.