Why is it that when I’m standing in a crowd at a party, minding my own business, a shirtless drunk guy grabs me from behind by the wrist and says, “Wanna dance?” As if I have a choice. I want to know what is it about me that says “aim high, she can’t say no.”
I’m one of those people that has to think about my delicate reply first. I need time to separate the desperate blue, begging eyes, from the guy too drunk to realize I’m old enough to be his mother. And who is his mother? One of my classmates? Should that factor in? I don’t want to hurt anyone’s feelings.
My made-up language is always handy for a social emergency like this but those faux foreign words completely failed me. Besides, a language barrier wouldn’t have been a barrier at all once he wrangled my wrist in his grip. You don’t have to speak the same language to dance…with a drunk guy…with no shirt…who is dragging you by the arm.
I hadn’t even noticed him at the party either, so I didn’t “advance red flag” shirtless guy as someone to shut down if he starts up a conversation with me. Do you see the humor in that? The part where I said “starts up a conversation?” That would entail the use of verbs and nouns and conjunctions and, perhaps a commonality, other than that we’re both at the same party. Maybe even a socially acceptable distance would be involved, where we stand two, maybe three feet apart, and there is no wrist-grabbing, or unnecessary touching of any kind, thank you.
None of this “Me cave man. You woman.”
It’s too late for me to say, “Dude. I’m a lesbian.” That would have stopped him in his tracks, for sure. So while he’s dragging me downhill by my wrist I’m thinking plan B: As soon as he lets go of me on the dance floor I bolt. But he didn’t drag me over to the dance floor. He dragged me over to a giant, industrial wooden spool that was tipped over on its side and cleverly used as a table that came up chest height. Perfect for guests to stand around and eat their pig roast and hundreds of other potluck dishes made with love. Dishes I am still craving, over a week later.
He gestured for me to jump onto this chest height spool, upon which the two of us would dance, like strippers. I could totally see the movie playing out in his mind. I’m wearing a skirt and when he sees I can’t jump up there I’m imagining he will hoist me up there and get a good look at my hoo hoo.
But that is not what prevented me from wanting to get up there and dance. It wasn’t that there were already three other people up there dancing and where would we fit, either? It was him. All him.
He was an armpit dancer. One of those guys who takes off his shirt and raises his arms, closes his eyes and turns his head from side to side. You find yourself wondering, What is he fantasizing? but then you quickly shove that thought out of your head. Does he think he’s Brad Pitt? Again, you struggle to look away but it’s like a train wreck, or cows with unevenly filled udders, or a birth defect. You can’t look away. Though you want to, you cannot.
When I fast forwarded his fantasy in my mind, I could see me, dancing with him atop that spool, backing away from the armpits, falling head first off the table and waking up in a cave with amnesia. I’d forget who I was and he’d trick me into thinking I was home. Home, sweet moss and carcasses home. At least that was the movie that ran though my mind. There would be no armpit dancing for me on top of this spool.
Okay, so. The “conversation” at the spool/table went like this:
Me: “What?? You want to dance on top of this?”
Armpit Dancer: “Yea!” pant pant pant. You could see the movie in his eyes: the two of us up there bustin’ moves, throwing our cares to the wind, our elbows over our heads, armpit dancing. It was going to be just like one of those clubs on 42nd street where the girl is dancing seductively in a tube while being elevated by a cable so you can see up her slinky little outfit, only he’d hoist me over his head, like Dancing with the Stars.
Me: “No. I’m not dancing on top of this.”
You know how they say that if you are cornered by a bear, you can get away by running downhill? What they don’t say, and this is where this blog is loaded with survival tips you won’t get anywhere else, is if cornered by a drunk armpit dancer run back up the dark hill and hide behind people who are standing around talking.
I ran behind my trusty friends Tracy and Jim, and I said, because I’m not in high school anymore; I’m a mature 46-year old suburban housewife with two children and a husband, who over the years has learned how to handle herself in all kinds of situations: “Tracy, hide me! Drunk shirtless man wants me to dance!”
I pointed to the guy wandering about looking confused, like he’d lost something but can’t remember what. I was relieved when she said, “I’d be afraid of him, too, Amy.”
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