I believe the word is: "avergonzada"

So, I realized last night that there was a terribly embarrassing story that I forgot to tell you. It goes like this… (and unfortunately, it’s true):

Every Tuesday night the teachers meet up for a free dance class that is given by one of the administrative staff (a delightful little Spanish man who’s surprisingly graceful on his feet). I have to say that I often have to conceal laughter at this class because it can be pretty funny watching a group of middle-aged, stereo-typical teachers try to dance. It’s funny enough to me that I could probably guess what everyone teaches without them ever telling me. Most of them fit their roles to a tee. There’s the awkward math teacher (God bless him) with his shuffling, clunky shoes, total lack of rhythm, and cardigan sweaters that could be out of a Mr. Roger’s episode. There’s the commerce professor who always seems to be intensely serious about learning the steps properly, and who must be dressed by his wife because his outfits are way to coordinated for him to have done it alone. There’s the English teacher, who is bubbly and always up for a good time. She likes to wear colors like bright purple and let her wild auburn curls bounce along with her personality. Then there are some of the older-women teachers: sweet, caring, motherly. Last but not least, there are some young(ish) male teachers. I know you’re thinking that the embarrassing part is that I must have stepped on someone’s foot or something (I wish), but it was actually after one of these evening dance classes that the real story begins. One of these young(ish) male teachers tried to strike up a conversation with me while we were on our way out. Out of politeness, I put up with him and tried to be moderately friendly. It was one of those conversations I was not interested in, and not listening to, but just giving the occasional half-smile and nod. I should really be more careful because in my negligence to pay attention, I accidentally agreed to meet him for a drink – without realizing it. We proceeded out the doors and I proceeded happily home. The next day, he approached me with a defeated look on his face. I greeted him in the normal way, not understanding what was wrong. The conversation went something like this (except in Spanish):

Him: Sooo, where were you last night?
Me: Umm, what?
Him: Well, um, I mean you said you were going to meet me for a drink, and I waited at the bar across the street for a while, but… you never came.
Me: [gasp] Ooooh, ahhhh, gosh, I, ahh-mmm sorry…

And then I think I made some lame excuse about my Spanish. Needless to say, he hasn’t really talked to me since. Not a problem for me, but I feel kind of bad for him. Oops. Live and learn I guess!

Hope you enjoyed that story more than I did! lol.