I just don’t like strange men rubbing on me.
Let me explain.
My wonderfully bubbly and cute friend (WBCF) whom I love dearly invited me to a party last night. Her friend was the DJ, there would be a pool and free otter pops. I’m not a huge partier but I wanted to get out after a long week.
We arrived fashionably late to the party and were dismayed to find it on the lame side. Apparently there was a rival party going on somewhere in Mesa that attracted a large crowd. WBCF and I found a wall to sit on and ate an otter pop.
We were not feelin’ it.
Determined to have a good time WBCF and I jumped into the pool to avoid people entreating us to dance. We bobbed around dodging people belly-flopping into the pool and listening to one guy complain about the time he was the bottom half in a chicken fight and the girl on his shoulders had hairy legs.
“Geez it was like sandpaper.”
But I digress.
Fast forward about an hour, the party finally became fun. I was out on the dance floor busting out all of my best white girl moves. I jumped when I should have clapped, I spun when I should have stopped dramatically. Whoever said you just need to “let the music move you” hasn’t met me. You’re right – it was embarrassing to behold, but I’m at that point where I don’t care anymore.
At some point between my ill-timed spinning and third otter pop, I realized my definition and everyone else’s definiton of dancing differs. You see, I thought it was that trainwreck I described above. They thought it was gyrating.
So I laughed and watched from the side of the dance floor trying to look involved yet not inviting. Then Mr. Man jumped behind me and started wiggling and I had to put a stop to it.
I tried to casually distance myself but he noticed and said while pouting,
“What you don’t like me?”
I said something along the lines of “No, but leave me alone” and he moved along.
Seeking refuge by the otter pop cooler I sat down and tried to involve myself in conversation. Five minutes later what appeared to be a conga line, just without any space between people, formed and Mr. Dude at the end said to me,
“Get behind me baby.”
To which my reply was short and sweet,
Then I called my boyfriend and asked to be picked up. I was all partied out.
This is where I feel like I need to say, really, I’m not a stuck up jerk. I wasn’t upset with the two guys or angry I had gone to the party, and I didn’t even have a horrible time. I thought it was pretty funny night. I enjoyed the first two hours of it and then a combination of my exhaustion and dislike for the type of dancing caught up to me. While sitting on the sidelines I wasn’t fuming at my friend for bringing me or harboring a grudge against my two acosters. If I was cool I’d say,
“It just wasn’t my scene, man.”
I’d rather be at a baseball game.