Pictured: my dancing skills.
Historically, I'm not the best dancer in the world. Going back to the sixth grade dance at Owens Road, I spent the majority of the time running around with Justin Tutt and Terrance Hernandez while being shot down by Abigail Poblete (my how things have changed). I can safely say that by the time I got to prom, in high school, my dancing skills at least progressed to "standing-there-and-let-her-grind-up-on-me" as strategy that seemed to not only work, but let me blend in.
Not like this.
But blending in was something that became lost on my journey through college. I can remember a few formals where after loading up with too much alcohol, we (people other than myself) would just jump around crazily and have fun. And I think that was the peak of my dancing career. A group of us, being too drunk to care. And that's probably how dancing should be. Everyone should be drunk enough to not notice those salient details like rhythm. Keyword there being everyone.
Fast forward to May of this year. Jason and Laura's beautiful wedding. The only mistake they made was the ninety minutes between the ceremony and the start of the reception. Me being me, I retreated to my hotel room and proceeded to down half a bottle of Sailor Jerry's. In my defense, we had been told that the wedding was open bar on beer only, this would not be the case.
It's about half.
It's now the end of the wedding reception. Dinner and cake have been served. Heartfelt speeches toasted to. Dancing on the dance floor having occurred. Have you ever gotten to a point of intoxication where one idea seemed to be the absolute best thing in the world? For me, it was a fist-pump-jump combination. I was like a god damn House of Pain music video (also he's white?!).
With the night coming to an end and my beloved parents schlepping me back to the hotel, I did what any boss would do upon entering his hotel room--puke. Yes mom, I did make it to the toilet. As I said, I'm a boss. I don't remember much after filling up the toilet multiple times, I do recall that jumping for five hours while putting away three-to-five beers an hour is a great combination for developing combustion. Further, this allowed me to act like a champ the next morning at the brunch, since unlike you lesser beings, I had no alcohol left in my system.
Google image returned this little fella for me when searching for "Pristine bathroom."
I told that story, so I could tell this story of last night. Yesterday, we had the annual summer barbecue at work. It started promptly at 5 PM. Drinking started promptly at 5:01. After putting down more than a six-pack and a pound of roasted flesh, not to mention sides and desserts, I proceeded to find myself in Clarendon. After chugging a thirty-someodd ounce beer, we wound up at some place that would transform into a dance hall.
If only it transformed into this.
After sharing some lovely conversation with some lovely ladies, I got tricked into dancing. And by tricked, I mean it was either sit at the table by myself pounding beer or stand on the dancefloor, pounding beer. So there I was, given the option to be scientific and repeat the experiment of early May or just say I don't dance. I took option B. Some people may say that I don't live as dangerously anymore. No, I think it's part of the maturing process. I knew I was going to technicolor yawn should I try to keep the pace. I knew that I would be forever banned from that place. And I knew that my already sterling reputation would have been placed in jeopardy had that happened. So you can call it wussification, I call it maturing.
Damn you Josh.