Oh na na…What’s my name

Grinding is the most unflattering dance ever performed and no matter how dirty it gets, it always looks awkward. Always.

While on a dance floor filled with grinders even though it was far too bright and not crowded enough to be doing so, I feel like the odd man out. I turn to my friend and say, “I like to dance the robot.”

While discussing our desire to dance but not like the majority of the dance floor, two guys come over and ask if we ‘need’ a drink. As I turn to get a good look of the one guy’s face, I notice the four of us graduated together. I slap his arm and go ‘Oh my God. Hey!”

He laughs but I think he is too far gone to really compute who I am. The moment is instantly bizarre. His friend catches on to the fact that we all know each other, and apologizes to my friend for hitting on her at a previous party—then he proceeds to hit on her some more. I don’t understand why he apologized. Sorry for punching you in the face…let me punch you again to make up for it.

The other guy asks to buy me a drink again and I tell him I don’t really want one and that I’m driving. He looks at me like I am a total prude and parades around the dance floor with his beer. My friend and her guy are already full on grinding so I resort to dancing the robot in front of them.

The guy assigned to me finds his way back with another beer in hand and starts dancing.  I am bobbing up and down because the DJ is playing remix versions of popular songs. Every time I get into the groove it changes and I look like the fool. Suddenly this dude starts making fun of my hip shaking, robot collabo and says—“Look at Jill dance!”

The record literally shrieks –“Did you just call me Jill?”

“Oh. Wait it’s Julia,” he says.

“No. It’s Juliette” I reply.

“Ok. Same thing.”

“Yeah no. They are not the same.”

That’s a dealbreaker but his yuengling gives him enough liquid courage to move past it and grab my hands and help me dance. Which I hate, I liked my old dance moves you a-hole.

His friend who keeps grinding on my friend (even though her facial expression and body language suggest she’d rather be dancing with well anyone else) keeps signaling to ‘my guy’ to do the same thing. He is mouthing back words as if he is yelling, like I am not watching the whole exchange play out.

I ask him what is going on and  he says, “He wants me to dance behind you but I keep telling him you’re not like that.” “You’re right I am not. So thanks,” I yell into his ear as the beat rocks.

He keeps giving me kissy eyes and inching closers but my eyes circle, looking at almost every other viewpoint but him. His racist slurs from earlier in the night were not going to get him any of my sugar.

So he leaves and I am all like ‘good riddance’. Their quiet friend who barely says two words the entire time inches into the circle. The way he just shows up reminds me of Brainy from Hey Arnold (you know, the heavy breather). He dances normally and I give a sigh of relief. Until grinder boy tells him to grind on me and he does. Dammit! I want to punch him like Helga would in his nonexistent glasses.

I am wearing my favorite shoulder bag that also converts into a backpack from Urban Outfitters. It is big and I honestly don’t know why I brought it in. It hangs around my waist and over my butt. So this guy is literally grinding against my backpack. Which I would rather him grind against, compared to the alternative but I know we look like such noobs. He keeps pushing me into my friend Jenna. She is shorter than me so eventually her face is up against my chest and I’m all, “I need to pee” a.k.a ‘this needs to end.’

So we book it to the bathroom and make an escape route right out the back door. In conclusion, the way to my heart is not through grinding.

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