05.04.2008 - 11:27 a.m.

I�m at a club in Annapolis, strangely disconnected from the music and the lights. I�m just back from the bathroom, where the organizing bridesmaid pulled us all, without telling us why. When we�d all crammed into the room, looking at our sweaty reflections in the mirror, she�d told us to �C�mon, look *excited*.� This club in particular had been her idea, and I can only guess that she honestly likes Journey dance mixes. I didn�t have the heart to tell her that her ambush-cheerleading was making this even harder.

I�d returned to find the bride on something between her third and sixth shot of tequila, making her plastic, penis-shaped martini glass dance to the music. She smiles up at me, delighted and spacey, and I pull her onto the dance floor, not because I want to dance, but because I want her to. We tango, the shaft of her glass between her teeth, and then the others are around us too, and we dance more normally. I can feel the flush of the morning�s sunburn along my arms, and the blacklight has me worried that my short skirt is maybe *too* short, because if I dip too low, my underwear will fluoresce. But I don�t look uncomfortable. I smile and dance, shaking my head �no� at an approaching male. I don�t want to dance with anyone. I want to find that place where my body is the music, even corny music, and I can�t do that while I worry about some stranger�s hands.

I move in tandem with one of the other bridesmaids for a while, but still the guy is here, pretending to also dance alone as he scoots towards me, looking to box my body in. I slide away and he holds his hand out to me, a pleading expression on his face. I am supposed to relent, but I shake my head �no� again. In this moment, I hate clubs, and I hate dancing, and I hate the way they set the music so loud that the beats go static in your head, making it impossible to convey your reluctance/annoyance/disgust with anything more than that headshake and distance.

It must seem coy, to guys like that. It must seem an invitation.

The bride is drunk enough to want to dance with him, and I wait long enough to see that he isn�t molesting her, catching another bridesmaid�s eye to signal that she keep an eye on them. I fight my way free of the floor, back to the bar, and have another drink. The Jack and Coke comes back pale, heating my throat as I drink it, and I admit to myself that I will not be driving home.

My last time dancing was not this hard. Last time had been a breaking-up party for a friend of mine; the night had started badly, catching her last fight with her ex, and then my shoes had fallen apart when I�d caught them on the gap in the Metro. But I�d rallied, pulling the remaining part of the soles off to turn the heels into flat sandals, only the lining between myself and the ground, and when we�d come to our destination, it was me who started the dancing, me who relaxed everyone else with the example of my good time. All I�d needed that night was water or coke, though I�d drunk anything a friend put in front of me, too.

I am not naturally outgoing, or naturally comfortable in crowds, but I know how to take hold of a night and make it my own. I have no idea why I couldn�t last night.

-stonebridge

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