Since it is Saturday I will continue to keep this light-hearted for the weekend. Just a fair warning here, this story will contain vulgar language and adult situations. You have been warned.

Winter 2003. My first semester of college was definitely an interesting one. I went to college thinking I only knew a couple of people and I quickly realized that there were more familiar faces than I realized. One of the houses where I spent the majority of my time drinking was on 16th and Como. This is where I met the eleven roommates I would live with the following year… although I didn’t start hanging out with those guys until late in the first semester. The group that lived there was divided into people I knew from high school and people they had met in the dorms the previous year (I was the baby of the group, a role a play very well). This allowed me to meet a lot of new people and form some new friendships.

It was an early winter night and after I finished pre-gaming the party in my dorm with my roommate (who rarely left the Playstation and even less left our dorm room) I set off by myself on the 12 block journey to 16th and Como.

Let me extend a little bit on yesterday’s post regarding Drunk Tim. Drunk Tim likes to dance, a lot. Now, I don’t remember this being the case prior to college. At some point early in my college career the switch was flipped (it has yet to be turned off).

As I am sure we all remember there was a popular television show on MTV called “The Wade Robson Dance Project” (well it was popular in my dorm room at least). If you didn’t watch it (loser) then I will give you a brief synopsis. People who could dance went on to the show to compete with other dancers… Wade Robson was a choreographer and back up dancer who would mentor the dancers and judge the competition. He was Drunk Tim’s hero.

As I arrived to the party everyone was gathered in the same place they do at every college party, the basement. Basement space in dinkytown is more valuable than shore front property in Malibu. Now, in the afternoon the basement was dingy, cramped and smelled like an alcoholics bathroom or at least what I imagine one to smell like. At night, it was a Vegas dance club mixed with the best pub you’ve ever been to (at least that’s what it was like to an insecure drunk freshman).

Now, as with most of these stories there are some fuzzy gaps so I can’t tell you exactly how I found myself in this position but, somehow, I found myself dancing with a small group of girls. One of them I knew from high school but the rest of them were strangers to me at this point. I know we had been discussing the Wade Robson show earlier in the night and at some point a song came on and the rhythm got a hold of me and in that moment, I was Wade Robson (minus the dancing skill, training, good looks and body). So, mentally, I was Wade Robson. I started teaching these girls choreography – steps, head bobs, back rolls (they were following along like I knew what the fuck I was talking about). After I felt they knew the routine, I let them dance on their own. And fell into my Wade Robson critiquing impression in which he would strut back and forth behind the dancer monitoring their performance. This video will illustrate how he behaves in the background…

This went on for a while and I ended up becoming friends with all of these girls, they were good sports. But, this is not where the story ends. When we were finished with dancing and I was sweating like I just ran the Boston marathon, I went to the keg for some much-needed hydration. And as I am filling up my cup someone walks up behind me, leans in and whispers in my ear, “you’re a fucking unbelievable dancer.”

I looked at her long enough to realize that she was serious and thought, you’ve gotta be fuckin’ kidding me. Now, this is the first time in my 18 years of existence that I have actually been hit on, so I had to see where this could go… Jenni was back at high school and I had no intention of doing anything that I shouldn’t, but I couldn’t stop this short.

So, we sat down at the bar in the basement, which if I remember correctly had a wrestling mat as the counter, and we got to talking. Simple stuff.

“Where are you from?” she asked.

“New York” I answered. Oh yeah, I should have also mentioned that Drunk Tim is from NY and Sober Tim is from Brainerd. NY sounds better and it is technically true.

The reason Drunk Tim always says NY is because drunk girls like this one assume I mean the city… if pressed I will tell the truth that I am closer to Canadian than I am to being a New Yorker, but usually it is assumed that you are from the Manhattan. So, in this girls eyes I am an amazing dancer from NYC. All the time I am thinking, what the fuck is going on?

We continue to talk for a while and she is laughing to hard at my poorly constructed drunk jokes. She even waited in the same spot like four separate times while I went to the bathroom over the course of 45 minutes. While I was in the bathroom I can remember talking to myself in the mirror and starting to believe that I was the desirable guy… Why wouldn’t she be hanging around me? (see: douche) This was getting serious.

When I returned from my bathroom break she finally asked, “where do you live?”

“Comstock Hall” I said confidently.

“You’re a freshman?!” she screamed in laughter and I thought to myself, well it had to end sometime.

Turns out that she was a senior. In that instant she transformed into an adult and I felt small and immature. She asked where my room was and I explained that I was on the first floor with window looking out onto the small hallway where people would cut through on there way to the cafeteria, she knew where it was. Suddenly, I felt like I was talking to someone who went to the U years ago and was helping lead them down memory lane. She had taking a liking to calling me “baby boy” since I was nothing but a young freshman. I was ready to end the conversation and I was just about ready to get up when she said…

“Baby  boy, tonight I see you taking me to your dorm, I will be wearing nothing but high heels and you bending me over and fucking me in the window so that everyone going to the cafeteria can see.”

To which I suavely responded, “w-what?”

She said, “you heard me.” And of course I did, but I now was in over my head and I quickly said, “I gotta take another piss.”

I sprinted up the stairs and took my time coming back down to the basement. By the time I made it back down she had found another guy and had no further interest in her baby boy (aaawwww).

I learned that night that my dance moves are powerful and with great power comes great responsibility… The next week as I was walking through the mall to my next class, I vaguely recognized one of the girls from the dance group I was mentoring in the basement (we are still friends to this day). As she passed she said, “Hi Wade” with a smirk. I didn’t know if she thought that was my name or if she was joking and that didn’t matter to me.