On Saturday night I put my party pants on, as I’m known to do, and got out of this apartment. In the name of socializing and with the intention of taking part in the nightlife of this young and happening city, I had some warm-up wine with the girls and then met the boys in a club in the city.
If you have ever gone out with me, or stayed in with me for that matter, you know I like to dance. Love to get down. Live to boogie. I’m by no means a good dancer, but I don’t care. I feel great when I’m dancing, happy, carefree and rather indifferent to whether or not those around me like my moves (elbows OUT). Dancing with new friends is a great means of bonding, you can whirl around pointing your fingers at them and winking and stuff and awkward conversation isn’t an issue at all. But just like so many situations outside the comfort of my apartment, there is always someone waiting in the wings to ruin a good thing.
I know this may come as an incredibly shocking newsflash to most of the men who take to the dance floor, also known as the d-floor, but I do not want you rubbing on me. I don’t want you creeping up behind me, circling us like a pack of wolves wearing bad cologne. I realize that dancing has certain sexual connotations, but life is not a video on MTV. If I really wanted to smell your body odor that close to me, I would make that really clear. Maybe I’d use my moves to shimmy up closer to you, or use a come hither gesture of the finger (and that finger wouldn’t have a wedding ring on it), or even just say “HEY! Want to dance?” It would be that literal.
Unfortunately, it would seem that most men on d-floors around the world haven’t read this memo. Although my most recent encounter was in Oslo, women all over the world have been forced to adopt evasive maneuvers as part of their dance repertoire. We form protective circles around each other, set up blocks in front of the worst offenders to defend the most vulnerable, and make direct eye contact while shaking our heads ‘no’, all while dancing to the block rocking beats. But just because we’re now experts in defensive dancing doesn’t mean we like it. We’d rather dancing unhindered, in a circle of our friends with our purses on the floor in the middle of the circle.
In conclusion, although I know it’s hard for aforementioned men to understand that women are not dancing sheerly for their pleasure, but instead for our own, let’s hope that our increasingly sophisticated means of thwarting their attempts at unwanted thrusting/gyrating/grabbing will eventually get the point across. Imagine what feats of dance we can accomplish without such a specter looming in the darkened corners of a strobe-lit room!