lxxxxiii

“I do not try to dance better than anyone else. I only try to to dance better than myself.”

-Mikhail Barysnikiov, a ballerina(?)

I’m dancing again.

My legs are still sore from Thursday but this Saturday night was just too inviting to just stay in my dorm room, to just watch some old movies on my whirring laptop, sheets curled around my legs. And so I am out with the rest of the hoards of college kids, wearing one of my two plaid shirts, the cuffs of my favorite jeans straddling my low-top faux-leather shoes.

I have never been here before. I alternated normally between two “country clubs,” reveling in the familiar faces and lively, open atmospheres. But this is different. This place is cold and contained and tiny, full of older, hardened locals, death-staring at my plaid shirt and favorite jeans.

Dancing in a crowded space literally cramps my style. I just want to animatedly lip-sync the words to every pop song, not be fenced in by these people with their gyrating idea of “dancing.” The night is shoddy and unmemorable, save for the new sticky-note place in the back of my mind to never come here again.

Maybe I should have just stayed home tonight.