I'd Like You to Meet My Special Friend

I WENT OUT last night. I wound up at a slightly sub-par drinking establishment that thinks it's high end/exclusive but, in fact, is not. It's also the kind of place that never really intends to host a dance party, but if the music gets loud enough and the ladies in the place are on their fourth or fifth round, a few will stumble towards a less-crowded corner of the room to "dance" (i.e. teeter in place, wave their arms "sexily" above their heads, shriek if a Beyoncé song comes on, and maybe get groped). Gradually, the rest of the people at the bar get tired of making fun of the dancers and decide to migrate to the newly dubbed dance floor.

I suppose it's apropos that I spent a considerable amount of time dancing at such a place last night, since I didn't really intend to go dancing. I was wearing flats, you know? I think I understand why most men can't really dance that well. Dancing in flats is like trying to look hot while you are dancing in your work clothes (which, incidentally, I was also doing).

I do love dancing, so my solution to this momentary wardrobe/lifestyle conflict was to dance anyway but to abandon all hopes of looking even remotely cool. I went spastic. I went tribal. There was a lot of jumping, spinning, arms pinwheeling around, a lot of thumbs, some shimmying... I may have spanked myself at one point. I think I looked a lot like my dad at a wedding, or Ellen DeGeneris on speed. I did this for maybe two hours, much to the amusement of my drinking partner who watched me from the bar while talking with a guy she had just met.

Not surprisingly, it was very liberating. It was also, perhaps less predictably so, an interesting social experiment. For one, when I took a break to check on my friend, her new acquaintance eyed me with some degree of bemused sympathy, and when I introduced myself he responded in too-loud, one-syllable words as if he were trying to communicate with someone who didn't understand English. After a bit of awkward conversation, I thought, "Waaaiiit a second, does he think I'm mentally challenged?" At that moment, Dee Lite's "Groove Is In The Heart" came on, and unable to resist the urge to flail, I ran back to the dance floor, leaving my friend to explain.

DURING THIS FREAK OUT SESSION, however, I couldn't help but notice the glances in my general direction. It was a lot of the same: bemused sympathy. I started to get defensive, my internal voice firing off retorts such as, "Hey, I'm not nearly as drunk as you, a**hole," or, "Please, you think what you're doing looks normal?" and, "Oh will you just stop looking at me like I'm retarded and go back to your red bull vodka, you d-bag."

Alas, the operative word in the weary adage, "Dance like nobody's watching," is like, because inevitably if you do go so far as to take that cheesy coffee mug advice seriously, people will watch. My inner victim was throwing off my mojo, so I shut her up with a rousing celebration of Sir Mix-A-Lot's one and only chart topper.

A few men did seem interested and approached me on the dance floor (on a dare?) but were, for the most part, too shy or intimidated to attempt to upstage me. I must give credit to the guy who danced up to me with a conversation-starter that was arguably as unique as my bodily movements.

"SO," he shouted over J-Hova, "what are the five things you want to do before you die?"

(Maybe he wanted to be on the list? In any case), I thought for a minute and came back with,

• "See the Hagia Sophia,
• Try absinthe,

• Meet Tom Petty,
  
• Go scuba diving with sharks, and
• Write a book."
  

(I thought it was a pretty good list. "Clever AND a good dancer - I am a catch," said the reformed inner voice. In retrospect, though, absinthe would probably be a bad idea).

My style of dance did attract a few followers, and for this I was grateful, not because I was trying to gain approval, but because I wanted someone else to experience just how fun it could be to shed the bartifice (ˈbär-tə-fəs n. the false or insincere social behavior put on by bar goers seeking attention from the same and/or opposite sex).

At the end of the night, the music changed to the undanceable variety, signaling last call. As we filed out the door, one man turned to me and inquired, "So, what do you do?"

"Why do you ask?," I said, out of curiosity.

"You just looked pretty hyper out there. Are you a lawyer or something like that?" I'm not.

I laughed. "Something like that," I lied. I leaned in, lowered my voice to and said in a serious tone, "Actually, I work for the government." I don't.

"OH," he nodded knowingly, "That explains everything."