Sometimes I'm not nice, but this time, it's not my fault

Chris and I are taking a ballroom dance class to get ready for the requisite first dance at our reception. I've been excited about this for a long time, because I love to dance (I get it from my dad). Chris, on the other hand, has always been reluctant to shake ass in public, but I pointed out that as we were going to dance in front of 200+ friends and family members, some pre-dance instruction would probably go a long way toward not embarrassing ourselves. Surprisingly, he's having fun, too. Everyone in the class is more or less at the same level, which is nice, especially since they're all doing it for the same reason.

The four-week series started last week, but this week, our instructor announced that a new couple would be joining us. When they walked in, I heard a collective, sharp intake of breath happen around the room, because man, this girl was just a walking sartorial disaster. You know how you see that girl with the out-there jeans or the crazy boots or cracked-out hair, and you think, wow, she's being edgy and cool? Yeah, well, that only works if you pick ONE outrageous item and tone the rest of it down. Then you get a sense of intentional quirkiness. But when you outfit yourself from head to toe in questionable items? You've crossed the line into fugly.

Please, allow me to illustrate. We'll begin at the top: hair. Hair should only look wet if it is, indeed, wet. And by wet, I mean water. Not gel, not shellac, not that jheri curl stuff. Her hair looked soaking wet, but it wasn't dripping, so I'm guessing, it was not water. Anyway, it was all piled on top of her head in an unfortunately massive topknot, with tendrils that curled off like so many jellyfish tentacles. Ick. Moving on. Her sweater was the least offensive piece: a knit, semi-sheer sparkly red turtleneck. Okay, not great, but not bad. But the jeans? Oh god, the jeans. The jeans were super-flared, for one thing. For another? BEDAZZLED. That's right, from knee to ankle: metal studs in a floral pattern. It looked like someone's great-aunt Maude got cranked up on a few too many Red Bulls and was left alone with denim and a Bedazzler—never a good combination. Oy. And finally, the piece de resistance: the shoes. Let me put it this way: if Dorothy (of the Wizard of Oz) were a hooker, she'd be wearing those shoes. Red, sparkly stilettos. What a crime against humanity. Now, again, ONE of these choices? Bearable. The sum total? Train Wreck. You know how all women's magazines have those Fashion Don'ts sections, with the black bars across the offenders' eyes to protect their identities? I wanted to put the black bar across my eyes so I wouldn't have to look at her anymore.