I went to my first middle school dance at the mature age of eleven. My parents were a tad leery as there would be members of the opposite sex (insert gasp here) in a small confined space known as the school gymnasium.
I had my first ever slow dance with a boy to Christina Aguilera’s I Turn to You. It wasn’t very romantic, the poor kid had an oil spill in his hair and his face was raining sweat. My fingertips barely touched his shoulders and the Great Wall of China could have fit between us.
But our moment of intimacy was cut short by my mom. So busted. Reality Check: In university we don’t have our moms catching us Friday nights, out on the town. Thus, we don’t let any Great Wall stop us from having a little fun.
I’m not a very good “clubber.” In fact, I’m pretty awkward. The first time I ever went to a club I wore brown sneakers, beige corduroy pants, a polka dot T-shirt and a headband that looked like it was made by the Amish. I tried to dance, but the Macarena and raising the roof with the palms of my hands weren’t classified as appropriate bar dancing.
One night, a few years later I attempted to be a bit more scandalous. Let me assure you, it was just the one night. Goodbye Amish headbands, hello Britney Spears’ closet. I squirmed and maneuvered my way into a freakishly tight dress; just something my grandmother picked out (kidding.) It’s a wonder my body didn’t burst out every time I exhaled. I had to hike it up every three seconds, with the small piece of fabric hardly going past my belly button.
My high heels reflected a clown on stilts and my make-up looked like it was done by Niki Minaj. I stood stiff as Bristol board and when I bent over – well, let’s just say I never bent over, and certainly did not raise the roof.
Although, having everything pushed up and sucked in certainly leads to friendly gestures by strangers. Some people may enjoy such interaction with randoms. Personally, I prefer handshakes or fist bumps when greeting someone for the first time. Also, I move better in my corduroy pants.
Sometimes when I’m getting into my groove on the dance floor, I stop and look at my surroundings. Downtown Fredericton can easily be related to Animal Planet. One minute you have people hunting the dance floor for their prey; while others are flaunting their frisky dance moves. The next, some are passionately exchanging saliva with their prize (how adorable). They’re also putting their hands in places that were last seen by their mothers when they had diaper rash. They push up against each other like they’re part of a human knot or trying to get rid of an unbearable itch. Well, that’s just great, until someone accidentally lets one rip in the tight mosh of people, which we all know happens.
After a while, a few of the happy couples leave, probably going home to play Crazy Eights. Don’t forget, while everyone is out hunting on Friday night, our mothers are at home watching Martha Stewart, convincing themselves their babies are fast asleep in their dorm rooms (yeah right).
Don’t worry, there are happy endings that come out of a night of dance cages and sticky floors. My friend’s roommate met her husband at a bar in downtown Fredericton. Although, the rest of us usually leave a club with rips in our pantyhose or a fake phone number.
Let’s face it, we’re studious academic scholars by day, and wild jungle animals by night. Just remember, next Friday night when we play Twister on the dance floor or decide to wear a Polly Pocket dress; let’s think of our darling mothers back home.
