These are the words that I thumped out while grinding my hips in the style of Beyonce's 'Sweet Dreams' video, trying to eminate as much diva quality as I possibly could. Earlier, I had performed the "Single Ladies" dance to a cheering (or perhaps jeering; when in the thralls of dance, who really minds?) crowd, strutted like I was the crown glory of a fashion show to that new song by the Sugababes (not technically a good song at all, but beautiful to dance to), really 'broke-it-down' to various hip-hop stars and danced the YMCA.
This took place, needless to say, at a traditional disco.
However; the disco was only supposed to be for first years.
Woops.
As sixth years, myself and the girls were invited along to help out with the mums running the disco, you know, sell bottles, open doors, stop children spinning into one another, the generic 'we are the helpful happy pupils of legend' stuff. But the music was irresistable, and it became a disco for our group. (And a small ginger boy who kept trying to touch our bottoms. This, I felt, was both guttsie and a little bit on the rapey side.)
The thing about music is that it makes you feel sexy.
There can be no denying, by anyone involved in a proper dance, that this is the ultimate feeling of cool, collected sexual energy. (The exception, naturally, being sexy time. But that's different, obviously; I certainly don't wear shoes during sexy time.) You feel in control of your body, being able to forget in the dark that you have size eleven feet, or that your hair is slowly deflating - it's not deflating, it's becoming more moveable to the beat! You feel as if you are a dancer, that what you do is ultimately sexy because you are such an artist of the body. You feel like a performer, a 'Beyonce' who looks and is the personnification of esteemed 'hotness.' When you hit the beat by a flick of hips or move in symbiotic Christina Aguilera 'Dirrrty' motion with a friend, it's just you doing so that matters. The little group of friends and the man with the big black music makers is all you need to make you feel so fantastic. And you do feel good, really good, because you're in control of everything for once, you're close to the people you want be with; because your endorfants are being offloaded by the truck-load and your body is loving it!
I am sexy, sexy sexy sexy.
I am brilliant, a star, all that matters is me and my lovely torso!
Look at me go, I mean, I have snake-hips!
That's right, grindy grindy grind, sexy sexy sexy.
Sexy.
S-E-X-Y.
SEXY.
And then the lights go on.
You and your friends are sweaty, as in, lashings of the heafing back sweat sweaty.
Your faces are red, and you look a bit tired.
God, I am thirsty.
Oh, ouch, these shoes pinch a bit don't they!
And, as happened to me earlier this evening, the first years are cutting a berth around you so large that it brings new depth to 'personal space.'
Then reality asserts itself, you become a normal shade again, your breath returns and you can go and find that cardigan that you lobbed in the corner. Despite that brief flash of embarassment, you still feel bloody good.
The best thing about dancing is that you always have the memory of how good it was, how it made you feel. You can be sexy. And the feeling remains, and gives you something to mentally nibble on when you can't get into your really nice jeans.
"I am sexy, just maybe not when I'm re-inventing male cameltoe."
So, okay, technically, we should have helped the parents out, and maybe we should have allowed the disco to be more about the first years, but I think I've been able to convey that I felt the dancing really was worth it.
Apart from the ringing in the ears; that sticks like a bitch.
No comments:
Post a Comment