The first and only time I danced on a table it buckled underneath me.   My friends lifted me, in the chair, onto the table because it was the only free space on which to dance.  I was 18 and liked to dance.  I was also drunk.  All other space that night was taken up by girls dancing around their handbags and boys dancing around girls.

On a crowded dance floor, I am usually considered a fire hazard.  A fire hazard with a perfect view of other people’s asses.  I can’t look at my own without a mirror, but I spend a lot of time looking at other people’s.

Some security guards, who take their job really seriously, have suggested that ‘she might want to stay off the dance floor.’  Not because I’m a bad dancer, I’m actually quite good, but because if there was a fire, those same girls dancing around their handbags would trample me on the way to the exits.  This line of thought has never made sense to me.  I can bust out of a room faster than anyone running on high-heels and swinging a fugly Louis Vuitton handbag.

Before I settled down, which involves staying in more than going out, I’d been going clubbing since I was 18.  Most nights ended with me feeling happy, if slightly claustrophobic.  And even happier to leave The Sea of Asses.

These days, Friday nights consist of Indian food and a revolving collection of somewhat-nostalgic boxsets.  Sarge and I did go out last Friday, though.  To a pub to watch a band play.   Because the band is going to play at our wedding.  So really, you could say, we went out on Friday night to celebrate never having to go out on a Friday night ever again.  Or something.

We got a table up front.   No handbag dancers or asses in sight.  As people got more into the music, they began to dance around me.  Behind me, next to me, in front of me.  And so, I asked Sarge if he wanted to dance.  No.  There wasn’t enough room for me to twirl around myself, so I counted the number of times a stranger leaned on/got caught on the back of my chair.  I call such people Personal Space Invaders.  Sometimes, I need to ask them twice to back off.  I ask them nicely.  The third time, if needed, is not so nice.

A few years ago, a woman was so close that she actually fell into my lap.  I slapped her, and blamed my reflexes.  It was the first and only time I put my hands to anyone in anger/bewilderment/to deflect a fugly Louis Vuitton handbag.

On Friday night, I found myself touching a stranger again.  I elbowed her while getting my jacket on.  It was a reflex.

Next time will be at my wedding!

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