the daily snivel
Shake, shake, shake - Shake, shake, shake - Shake your booty!
Last night, my graduating law class went out for some festivities to celebrate the fact that most of us are finally finished exams and thus finished with law school forever (FOREVER, I say!). Although I still have a paper to hand in on the 29th, I'm all finished my exams, having triumphed over my prickly foe administrative law last Friday, and felt the need to celebrate and see my friends. As well, some of us will be leaving the city shortly, either to take the bar admissions course in Toronto or to start articling in another province (and one of my friends from my first year small group is interning at the Hague for the next year before coming back to clerk with a Supreme Court justice), so it was a good chance to see good people before they left for good.
We'd reserved a bar on Bank street (the Gap of Dunloe) and brought in some DJs to spin some tunes and liven up the dance floor. Cover was cheap, the drinks were not outrageously expensive (I wouldn't normally have thought to hang out at somewhere like this bar, whose typically quiet and sparese clientele demographic is clearly several standard deviations to the right of we boozehound braniacs, but at least it lacked the pretension of $7 beer), and I squeezed out the last few drops of precious credit left to me so that I could enjoy a round or two with my mates.
What really blew me away was that I was also proclaimed "the star of the dance floor," and continually praised on my so-called "moves" by at least five different people. I mean, I simply danced for a good two hours with my friends, and although I thought the secret was just to move around like an idiot in time to the music and be too liquored up to care, apparently this white boy does have some rhythm stowed away inside, mixed up with all that repression and shame.
I always think of myself dancing in terms of that old Saturday Night Live sketch with Jeff Goldblum, when he's being cajoled to dance by his girlfriend and he feels too self-conscious to do it. She tells him to just get up and move, because no one is going to care, but as he dances people keep mocking his motions and pointing and laughing, and although his girlfriend assures him he's reading into things, Chris Farley ultimately saunters over, apes the dance motions in a forced manner, and shouts, "Hey, everybody! I'm doing The Idiot!"
I always thought that was me. Huh.
But anyway, it was a lot of fun. I really enjoy being out on the dance floor, despite the fact that as the evening wore on a talented, bright and gorgeous friend who truly awed me as a fabulous dancer tried to get me to dance with her, and I was absolutely horrible trying to stay coordinated with a partner. She kept trying to get me to spin her and, after I kludged it up a few times, eventually she asked me if I minded if she were "the man" for our dancing. I didn't. But in time we worked out the spins and it was really quite elegant.
The only thing that got to me was watching people get progressively drunk and flirt with one another. Some people had brought their boyfriends or girlfriends, and others just got grabby with the drink. For the longest time, I've been quite content with the single life, but I felt unbelievably lonesome last night. One of the reasons was that I bumped into an acquaintance that I'd asked out once upon a time, who initially said yes and later said "Maybe some other time," and things have been a little chilly since. She and I had a few words, but then danced and made eyes at each other, and I kept thinking maybe I should flirt a little, or at least do more than smile like an idiot, and then all the wondering was for naught because she left late in the evening without a word. I suppose the lesson is that hesitation is a bad thing, but I got sick of watching one or two idiots grabbing and trying to dance with every girl in sight, and believe it's better to be a gentleman. Plus, every time I take the initiative (including asking people on a date), it just gets weird.
Not that it helped that I walked home for an hour in the rain, listening to my "Sad Rob" mix on my iPod. I felt very melodramatic.
Anyway, the moral is that I had a great time, many laughs, danced for hours, and sure, felt a bit wistful, but in the end it's all a very typical night for me and I'd be profoundly disturbed if anything had transpired at all differently.
Comments:We'd reserved a bar on Bank street (the Gap of Dunloe) and brought in some DJs to spin some tunes and liven up the dance floor. Cover was cheap, the drinks were not outrageously expensive (I wouldn't normally have thought to hang out at somewhere like this bar, whose typically quiet and sparese clientele demographic is clearly several standard deviations to the right of we boozehound braniacs, but at least it lacked the pretension of $7 beer), and I squeezed out the last few drops of precious credit left to me so that I could enjoy a round or two with my mates.
What really blew me away was that I was also proclaimed "the star of the dance floor," and continually praised on my so-called "moves" by at least five different people. I mean, I simply danced for a good two hours with my friends, and although I thought the secret was just to move around like an idiot in time to the music and be too liquored up to care, apparently this white boy does have some rhythm stowed away inside, mixed up with all that repression and shame.
I always think of myself dancing in terms of that old Saturday Night Live sketch with Jeff Goldblum, when he's being cajoled to dance by his girlfriend and he feels too self-conscious to do it. She tells him to just get up and move, because no one is going to care, but as he dances people keep mocking his motions and pointing and laughing, and although his girlfriend assures him he's reading into things, Chris Farley ultimately saunters over, apes the dance motions in a forced manner, and shouts, "Hey, everybody! I'm doing The Idiot!"
I always thought that was me. Huh.
But anyway, it was a lot of fun. I really enjoy being out on the dance floor, despite the fact that as the evening wore on a talented, bright and gorgeous friend who truly awed me as a fabulous dancer tried to get me to dance with her, and I was absolutely horrible trying to stay coordinated with a partner. She kept trying to get me to spin her and, after I kludged it up a few times, eventually she asked me if I minded if she were "the man" for our dancing. I didn't. But in time we worked out the spins and it was really quite elegant.
The only thing that got to me was watching people get progressively drunk and flirt with one another. Some people had brought their boyfriends or girlfriends, and others just got grabby with the drink. For the longest time, I've been quite content with the single life, but I felt unbelievably lonesome last night. One of the reasons was that I bumped into an acquaintance that I'd asked out once upon a time, who initially said yes and later said "Maybe some other time," and things have been a little chilly since. She and I had a few words, but then danced and made eyes at each other, and I kept thinking maybe I should flirt a little, or at least do more than smile like an idiot, and then all the wondering was for naught because she left late in the evening without a word. I suppose the lesson is that hesitation is a bad thing, but I got sick of watching one or two idiots grabbing and trying to dance with every girl in sight, and believe it's better to be a gentleman. Plus, every time I take the initiative (including asking people on a date), it just gets weird.
Not that it helped that I walked home for an hour in the rain, listening to my "Sad Rob" mix on my iPod. I felt very melodramatic.
Anyway, the moral is that I had a great time, many laughs, danced for hours, and sure, felt a bit wistful, but in the end it's all a very typical night for me and I'd be profoundly disturbed if anything had transpired at all differently.
