Andare, Partire, Tornare


Why should a fun night dancing trigger so much unfocused irritation?

Went last night to Polly Esther's, a retro-ish dance club in DC. Previous attempts had been squelched as we had had bad info about how difficult the place was to get to - it turns out to be a pebble throw from either exit of Metro Center, so pffft on difficulty. The only other objection was a ten dollar cover charge, but if you wanna party with the big boys, I guess you gotta pay the entry fee. Ten bucks is what Kateh and Chess and I paid to get into an irish pub in Boston, so it's all relative.

Being the club novices that we were, we arrived ridiculously early (nine-forty-five) and found the place pretty dead. We all had a drink (Cher got the Ronald Regan, while I had something similarly named - the Punky Brewster, or some such crap. After watching an ambiguously gendered individual dance by his/her self like they were auditioning for Flashdance, we got up and danced a little, but had the floor to ourselves. So we retreated to some seats, and pondered strategy. It seems that the club didn't really start pumping until eleven. Cher's sister was experiencing Iwannagohomeitis, and so she and Cher were discussing how she might get home since we had all carpooled to the Metro. There was discussion about just leaving right then, which was making me very irritable as we had paid ten bucks to get in, and knew the club would improve in about twenty minutes to a half-hour's time. I didn't want to just give up and head back because things weren't exciting right that very second. Plus, only the eighties dance floor was open, and we had wanted to see the seventies floor as well, but it wouldn't open until later.

In the way of things, the club started to fill as we were all arguing. Not one, but *three* bachelorette parties showed, all complete with matching bunny ears, and brides wearing big obnoxious fake veils. One of them even brought along the bachelor party, marked by a guy wearing a plastic top hat that said GROOM. For a long time, the ratio of guys to girls was really skewed, and that added to the "let's leave" side of the argument. However, we ended up talking for so long about whether we should go, that the club filled, guys started to show, and we went up to the now-opened seventies dance floor.

We danced until about midnight, and had a bunch of fun, not to mention a pretty good cardio workout. However, I was...sort of irked, although irked may be too strong a word...about the fact that Cher and Persia seemed to be so oblivious to all the guys lurking around our little dance circle hoping against hope to be invited to dance. It's partly because the last time we all went dancing at ecity, I ended up dancing with a couple of guys (well, forms of male life. Ugly forms of male life) and never heard the end of it from Persia. Me being the only married among the group, it turned into teasing about "yeah, the married woman was stealing all the guys." (Most unfairly, I lump Cher into this, although I don't think she really cares whether or not she gets approached by a guy on the dance floor. She's happy just to dance, I think.) I'm pretty tired of this sort of teasing, really, because Cher and Persia weren't paying attention to any of the guys who were just hoping for some eyecontact to justify their coming over to dance with either of them. I talked to Bemo about this, and basically the pattern seems to be this: Most guys are chickenshit. They don't want to sack up and come over and ask you to dance, either verbally or nonverbally, so they lurk, hoping for some small sign of encouragement that means you won't eviscerate them on the dance floor. However, after tossing back a few drinks, they are more than willing to risk rejection. Unfortunately for them, the fact that they're shit-faced drunk means that their rate of rejection skyrockets, especially from people like Cher and Persia, who don't tolerate drunken fools lightly.

I guess what I'm saying is that, months after it happened, I'm tired of hearing about how I'm the only one who danced with a guy at ecity. It's all in good fun, but...I'm tired of it. When the group of us are out there together on the dance floor, I can guaran-damn-tee that I'm the last one who guys are looking at. I am the one that guys send their best friends in to act as wingman while they attempt to score with the cute chick. Cher and Persia could have a flood of guys dancing with them if they decided to make eye-contact with any of them.

Wow, am I ever in a petty mood tonight. I'm probably taking things way too seriously, but for some reason, last night - as fun as it was - touched some nerves somewhere. Maybe I just got heatstroke from wearing leather pants in August.

In other news, I've been pretty happy this past weekend as just a plain old cashier at the 'Mart. I don't have to deal with the inept manager, inept co-workers, wet smelly dogs, or flying hair up my nose. I can take my breaks, yak with fellow cashiers, and just do my thing until it's time to go home.

My dental visit from a few weeks ago has made me paranoid, and I'm brushing my teeth every time I turn around. But I now want my wisdom teeth out...ever since the dentist told me they were riddled with cavities, they've ached. Never ached before, even though the cavities aren't new. Power of the mind, eh?

11:39 p.m. - 2003-08-03


previous - next

latest entry

about me





random entry

other diaries: