Saturday evening, after a somewhat unexpected road trip to Amiens on the way back from my fiancée surviving a parachute jump - I didn’t jump, so I survived too - we went to a friend’s birthday party near Oberkampf, aka where all the Paris bars are located (we, or at least I, needed that degree of normalcy after such an eventful day: I tend to only leave Paris to leave the country).
The birthday boy is part of my friends’ improv group, and so a couple of them were also in attendance (not all of them, but I’m too nice to name names). This included my best friend and his girlfriend, who’s currently 8 months and 1 week pregnant. Needless to say, when we arrived, they were sitting on the couch (my friend is my friend because he’s lazy).
Me, quite jokingly: Hey guys! I see that no one is dancing!
Friend: Neither are you…
Pregnant girlfriend: Yeah, and you could!
Fiancée: Definitely… Look!
And my fiancée proceeded to start dancing - in rhythm! - to the electro-pop tune that was playing in the background. I may not be a great dancer, but she’s pretty good and she knows it - both that she’s good and I’m not. And she likes taking advantage of that situation.
Me: I don’t dance because I’m being polite. Our pregnant friend here could not join in…
Friend: Is that really your best excuse?
Pregnant girlfriend: What do you mean, I can’t dance?
Me: Well, with you being pregnant and all…
Fiancée, who stopped dancing for a second: Huh… Don’t you think that’s a little sexist?
Me: Well, no, I mean… The woman is 3 weeks away from giving birth and has - finally - surpassed her boyfriend in waist size [Note: she’s naturally very thin, he’s less so]. I can only assume that dancing would not be the first thing on her mind… or the best thing…
Pregnant girlfriend: Wrong.
The woman stood up and started dancing with my girlfriend like nobody’s business.
Fiancée: Now, you.
I had no choice: I ran out the bar.