Well Chris is out of town again – so I’m back to BUI. Not as bad as last time – but I was a little shocked when I saw the dent I made in that wine bottle. This time, I’m putting it away before I can finish it. And I made sure to eat something substantial before sitting down to write (no off color, out of character innuendos – and I know that a few of you are disappointed).
But that one too many glasses of wine made me think about another “interesting” effect that too many drinks will instigate. One that I didn’t mention last time is the well known phenomenon that I think we can all relate to. Too many drinks make us all just a little too confident on the dance floor.
Just picture yourself at that wedding, college reunion or any celebratory event that usually includes an open bar. You start out the night catching up with old friends, hesitantly approaching people you don’t know well or haven’t seen in a long time, and possibly even doing a little restrained dancing along with the rest of the group. But fast forward about two to three hours after you’ve been too busy talking to eat the dinner that was seemingly whisked out from under your nose minutes after it arrived. After you’ve moved past the cocktail you ordered for yourself, to the less desirable one that someone else ordered for you, to the wine glass that seemed to be refilled every time a server visited your table, to the rounds of shots that you would never in a million years have accepted if you hadn’t already consumed the equivalent of your typical month’s alcohol intake. Now you are not only happy to be there but well aware of how happy everyone else is that you are there. You are quite possibly one of the most sought after conversationalists present and you are now ready to show your admirers that you are far more than just a pretty face. You are an exceptionally talented dancer.
That’s right. We’ve all been there – and some of us have been unfortunate enough to be documented in pictures and video. As fun as it is at the time – as great as we think we look at the time – we all know that once the glitter is gone and the fluorescent lights are on, we just weren’t as fabulous as we felt.
How often have we cringed when we woke up “the morning after”? Very few of us have the strength of character to either stand by our electric boogaloo moves or to withstand the character assassination from our nearest and dearest via digital photo eblasts and YouTube footage. But here’s to those who march to the beat of their own inner DJ. They somehow never look dorky. And if their moves don’t convey mad skillz, their enthusiasm encourages those around them to join in the fun.
As for those “mornings after” – well, I’ve had many. I will be the first to admit to having the Footloose urges that a few drinks tend to inspire. And while I do cringe a little, I also try to remember the fun and the lack of inhibition. Living in the moment offers a thrill that we rarely allow ourselves in daily life. And it helps to be able to laugh at yourself (even for people like me who take themselves very seriously).
I remember once making plans to meet up for drinks with my friends Nancy and Maureen on a Friday night shortly after I returned from my honeymoon in 2000 (when we were 28). We agreed to meet at J. Paul’s in Georgetown. It was a central location with good atmosphere and a restaurant if any of us needed to grab dinner. It was always packed, but not too crowded. We had a great time catching up, and after a few drinks (and no dinner), decided to move on to another bar for another drink. Next stop was Mr. Smith’s – again, not too crowded and conducive to conversation. This is where we probably could have called it a night, but we were having SO much fun that we just had to move on to a third bar. And what is across the street from Mr. Smith’s, but everyone’s favorite (at least at that time) post-college bar, The Griffin Room at The Guards. We walked in there like we were 23 again – just more sophistocated, with better clothes. After ordering some very cheap gin & tonics, we took a moment to enjoy the ubiquitous “everybar” music and check out the scene.
Having graduated from Fordham in New York, I have great nostalgia for Frank Sinatra classics which at that time had not quite infiltrated mainstream DC nightlife (or at least not the just-out-of-college crowd). I can’t resist the urge to dance to this mainstay of my college bar experience; and The Summer Wind could be considered the mother ship for me and all of my fellow alumni. The minute I heard those opening notes I began to search the room for a dance partner. And as soon as I spotted him I knew he was the one. Too much hair gel, obvious Italian heritage and a black leather jacket – he was exactly what I needed. He was just the guido I was looking for. In all of my liquored up bravado, I marched right over and said, “You’re from New York. You like Frank Sinatra. Come dance with me.” And he did. He asked me how I knew that he was from New York, and I tactfully responded that he was very “urban” while most DC natives were more conservative. This seemed to please him, and I blissfully spun and dipped knowing that my friends were right there with me doing the same.
After that, everything went downhill. No idea what happened to my Italian friend, but we subsequently spiraled down into a haze of current pop music and groups of Eurotrash players. But surprisingly, I made it home at a respectable hour – and with some aspirin and late night food, avoided the expected hangover. Having graduated from considering any wild night a great time to suffering pangs of mortification for the slightest memory of exuberance – I was fairly pleased with my ability to dance at The Griffin Room without making an ass out of myself (even if I didn’t remember very much of it). Then about a week later, when Nancy and I were driving to see Cirque de Soleil, we talked about what a fun night that had been. I remarked upon how we had managed to be so silly without doing anything embarrassing. That was the exact moment that the song Who Let the Dogs Out started playing on the radio. And then it all came flooding back. The circle dance, the moves, the strutting. Oh – the humiliation… Well what can you do? We just laughed.
But some people throw themselves into dancing regardless of whether they have been drinking or not, and they have my utmost respect. My father is one of these people. Anyone watching him dance will say, “he is fantastic!” He certainly looks like he can dance. He has moves, he has fancy footwork, and he twirls his partner in very intricate rotations around the dance floor. But the truth is – my father is a loose cannon. He doesn’t follow any set dance steps, so his partner has no idea what to expect. He loves to do complicated things involving pretzeling of arms and whipping motions that send his partner ricocheting in all directions. This was a source of great concern for my mother when it came time to pick a song for our father-daughter dance at my wedding. I was a bit windblown by the end – but we managed to make it through without any injuries.
Once at my cousin Kristin’s rehearsal dinner, he almost killed her grandmother. Mrs. Sharon is Kristin’s mother’s mother (my father is her father’s brother), so we didn’t know her well. But anyone could see that she was an extremely elegant and dignified woman. There was a pianist and a dance floor at the event; and when dinner concluded, my father asked Mrs. Sharon to dance. I was sitting next to the dance floor with Chris and my mother and we watched with great trepidation as my father tossed the sweet lady around in something that resembled a lively jitterbug. Toward the end of the song, he pulled out one of his signature moves of spinning her out and then back in, but somehow lost hold of her hand in mid fling. Then everything went into slow motion as we saw her turn about three times in a trajectory aimed directly at the dining tables. Three seconds later she was under a table. All we could see were feet sticking out from under the beige linen.
Later, my father said that all he could think was, “oh god – please don’t be dead.” But moments later, the poor woman popped up to give everyone an “I’m okay,” wave. They then returned to the dance floor in a more subdued attempt to save face. Once the wheezing laughter had stopped and we were wiping the last few tears from our cheeks, the song ended. And as my father and Mrs. Sharon passed by, we heard him say, “let’s take a breather.”
So whether you reserve your best moves for the open bar events or proudly display them whenever the opportunity presents itself, think before you frug. If there is a videographer present, walk away from the light. Beware of friends bearing digital cameras. Your dancing never looks half as good as it feels so why ruin it with documentation. Truly, it’s all fun and games until someone loses their integrity doing the Electric Slide.
