My 20 year high school reunion was last weekend. I giggled wholeheartedly this week as I read Scary Mommy’s I’m Not Gonna Dance and I’ll Throw My Drink in Your Face if You Try to Force Me post. You see, I am the opposite. I love to dance. And although I am friends with quite a few classmates on Facebook, I haven’t seen the majority of those people in person since we graduated. I don’t think they knew I would never leave the dance floor. Until I never left the dance floor.
This is how it is with me, though. No matter where I go, I am so unashamed at dancing the night away. I don’t need mah man on mah arm. I don’t need friends by my side to cheer me on. I hear the music and it’s on. Unless we are dance-like-minded, you are left midsentence at the door because I’ve already hit the floor. I will leave long enough to get a drink or five, but unless the DJ slows it down (or plays something absolutely undancetoable, or worse, plays Kool the Gang’s Celebration instead of Prince’s 1999 at midnight on New Year’s Eve of 1999 WE SHOULD HAVE SCRATCHED HIS RECORD!), I’m not even stopping to pee until it’s time to go.
The infrequency of my going out does play a small role in how hard I dance (because I’ll likely not be out again until the summer of 2012). But, it’s more about my love of dancing overall. And I have infected my children. We dance after dinner. We dance while making dinner. We try not to dance while eating dinner, though, because that’s just not acceptable table behavior.
I proved the beat will always move my feet at the reunion and I am not embarrassed that every comment on every picture on Facebook says something like, “She was gettin’ it! All night.” Because I was. I had a ball.
I always have a ball. Someone would have to play something besides Prince’s 1999 IN 1999! COME ON, WHAT KIND OF DJ ARE YOU? in order for me to not have a ball. In order for me not to dance all night. Milli Vanilli? I’m dancing. Madonna’s Vogue where I have to keep stupidly posing? I’m dancing. The Macarena? I won’t like it, and I won’t be doing the Macarena, but I’m still dancing. Maybe just side to side until the DJ realizes he needs to quickly mix something new in OR MAYBE THE DJ IS TOO STUPID TO KNOW THAT YOU DON’T PLAY ANYTHING ON NEW YEAR’S AT THE END OF 1998 EXCEPT PRINCE’S 1999! I’m a little bitter still. He was stupid.
Maybe you don’t understand. I’m the one person still on the floor when the DJ plays Will Smith’s Gettin’ Jiggy Wit It. Yup, that’s me. Na na na na na na na.
At the end of the night, I didn’t remember any more people at the reunion than I did going in, but there were so many smiles, so much genuine happiness, that it didn’t matter.
So, shall we wind up at a party together, you and I, know that you will always be able to find me, always be able to tell someone where I am (in case you need help getting to the bathroom because you’ve been sitting and drinking, not dancing it off and OMG DO NOT CLOSE YOUR EYES, IT’LL ALL START SPINNING!
You’ll never have to scan the crowd to see what table I’m sitting at, or find a corner to see if I’m holding up the wall. I will always, always be on the dance floor. Sometimes smack dab in the middle of the floor. The one for whom “party over here!” is being yelled. The one getting more and more hyped by chants of “Go! Go! Go!” I promise to not pull you onto the dance floor to humiliate you in a broke-down reenactment of Kid n Play’s kick step.
But, I will likely secretly wish to yell over the thunder of the bass: You be Turbo, I’ll be Ozone!