One evening after an especially heavy night of dancing to Hall and Oates, I fell asleep in my dance outfit. Upon waking the next morning, I realized I was late for my scheduled tee time. So I threw on my caddying uniform over my leotard, grabbed my 10-speed Huffy and pedaled off to work. On the third hole, a 387-yard par 4 with a dogleg left and water guarding the front edge of the green…it hit me. My bladder was desirous of emptying its bloated self.

I hastily rushed behind a mighty oak tree (that would soon find itself feeling inferior), unzipped my zipper (waited for the horns of glory and bright lights to stop) and began to release the pressure.

Only then did I remember that leotard. My embarrassment forced me to never don the gear of a dancer again. My dreams were pissed away…for good.

And so now, mlm, you know the pain that I feel every time Irene Cara is mentioned.