some days ya gotta dance...

Some of you may already know this about me, some of you may have no idea: I love to dance. And I used to be quite the party girl in college and for a few years thereafter. In other words, before I got married and settled into being an old married lady. The other night, I actually got the urge to go out to the club and dance my cares away. I know how ridiculous that sounds, but I also know that it used to keep me sane. When I was single, there were a lot of nights I would do almost ANYTHING not to be alone in my shitty apartment. Those 5 rooms were so depressing sometimes that I almost couldn't bear it. Factor in the lack of central heat or A/C and it's pretty easy to understand why I went out so much. Funny thing is, I probably drink more now than I did then. (And I certainly drink better quality stuff now!)

Many Friday and/or Saturday nights, I would get dressed up in some ridiculously cute outfit, occasionally bordering on the very inappropriate but fun, climb into my vehicle, and head out. I usually went alone, thinking that would keep me out of the drinking kind of trouble but allow me to engage in the naughty kind of trouble, if I so chose. I would listen to my "Goin' Out" compilation CD, with all the glorious randomness of the B-52's, Destiny's Child, Monifah, and Blondie, and I would sing my heart out and wiggle along to the beat while I drove. I went out to one particular club so often, the bouncer at the front recognized me by my tattoos. (I wore wigs a lot back then, so my hair and makeup always looked VERY different from night to night!) I would make a round, see who I could see, feeling bold and sexy and free. If a good song came on, I got on the dance floor. And I didn't gravitate to the middle of the floor, hoping to hide from the spectators, oh no, I stayed out on the edges and put on a fucking show. Sometimes I would pick a boy to dance for. Sometimes boys would try to dance with me and get shut the fuck down. I was ruthless if I wasn't interested. If I was interested, well..."ruthless" also applies. Most of the time, though, I wasn't after anything. I just wanted to DANCE. To sweat and to make myself sore and tired and thoughtless. To literally shake off everything that built up on me for the week before. To talk if I wanted to talk or to just shut the hell up and dance my ass off. To drape myself on some hot boy during a romantic country song, singing into his ear and then walking away.

When I was exhausted and couldn't take any more, I would leave. Sometimes alone, sometimes not. If I was hungry, a stop at Whataburger or Taco Bell was a must. I would go home reeking of cigarette smoke and sweat and pheromones. Too tired to shower sometimes, I would just put on my PJ's and fall into bed, hair still stinky and sometimes even still sweaty. It was delicious. And if I didn't go home alone? Well, a shower was inevitable.

So this past weekend, I thought for a few brief moments about putting on my favorite jeans and a sexy top, mussing up my hair, spritzing on some perfume, and chumming the proverbial waters at the club. I didn't do it, obviously. I realized after those few brief moments that it would be insane of me to do it. I wonder now how I didn't get myself hurt or killed back then. Some of the choices I made, well, they're for another post, darlings. Don't get me wrong, I don't regret a fucking thing. Matter of fact, I've said before that the only things in my life that I would remotely consider regrets are missed opportunities to hook up with a boy. Not all the times I did hook up with boys. Of course, my objective had I gone this weekend would have had nothing to do with boys and everything to do with me dancing and dancing and sweating and dancing until I had nothing left.

Some days, ya just gotta dance.

Sweatily,
Lola