Dress, walk, and act like you know you’re all that.
I went out on Friday with The Ladies. We’re no longer Girls and we’re not nearly serious enough to be called Women, but we’re CERTAINLY not lady-like, so the use of the term is tongue-in-cheek. I very, very rarely go out, what with the almost crippling social anxiety and being really lazy about doing stuff and preferring to stay home and watch movies with AH on weekends anyway, so going out with The Ladies was a momentous event.
We went to a clurrrb, but only in the most strict, technical sense. Yes, there was music. Yes, there was a dance floor. Yes, there was not one, but two bars and no less than 15 bouncers and the lights were real low and the sound system was turned up real loud. But it was in an old bungalow. If you passed it any other day of the week, it could have been anything. But it was, in fact, a club.
There are going-out-with-The-Ladies clothes and then there are club clothes. Going-out-with-The-Ladies clothes are up-casual – your best jeans, a nice top, maybe a pair of boots with heels. Club clothes are shorter, tighter, more Bedazzled, more cleavage-y, and more bend-over-and-we’ll-see-your-chatch. I wore the former. But you know what? Despite my body issues, which are admittedly ALL in my head, I looked good. Not “trolling to be ogled” good (I never, EVER dress like that because being ogled makes me want to punch things in the face), but good. Nice. I fit in, is what I’m saying, which is all I’m ever aiming to do.
When I go to a bar with The Ladies (bwaaaaahahahahahahahaha…like this happens so often, I can legitimately start a sentence with ‘when I go to a bar…’), I walk in like I own the joint. It’s a defence mechanism because my insides are screaming “RUN!!! THERE ARE PEOPLE IN THERE! PEOPLE!!! WHO MIGHT LOOK AT YOU AND THERE MIGHT BE A LOT OF THEM AND YOU’LL ALL BE BREATHING THE SAME AIR AND WHAT IF SOMEONE SAYS SOMETHING TO YOU? WHAT THEN? YOU. WILL. DIE.” So I act. I act like I’m there all the time. That nothing bothers me, that I can handle the crowd, that I CHOOSE not to speak to anyone because I’m above that. I walk like I know where I’m going. I plough through the masses with my head held high, elbows out, all the while my mind is telling me it would be easier to just go home.
Easier, yes, but not nearly as much fun. The Ladies were worried about me because I wasn’t drinking. I was DD because I’d rather not drink than have to pay for a cab, given the distance we were from my house. They were worried that I wouldn’t be Fun Jen. That I wouldn’t be talkative, that I wouldn’t want to dance, that I, myself, wouldn’t have fun. But, puh-shaw, I can be Fun Jen without alcohol. I went five straight years without a drop passing my lips. I’m used to not drinking. And I did have fun. A lot of fun. I danced my ass off (not completely, which is unfortunate), talked as much as my innebriated friends, and came out of the evening without a headache. Looking back and knowing how easy it is for me to fall into the Unfun Jen trap, it’s almost surreal how much good, clean fun I did have.
Thanks to Steph, Carly, Sara, Carolyn, and…I’m sorry…Carolyn’s two friends (I’m horrific with names). The night was exactly the right amount of fun with exactly the right people (we missed you, Laura and Denise). I came away feeling, knowing, that all is right in the world as long as you can let loose and have some fun every now and then.