It’s 12:14am on a Monday night. So obviously I’m awake, headphones plugged into my ibook, listening to music. I am at least lying in bed. I cannot tell you how excited I am for Saturday. All I want to do is dance.
I used to go out dancing every weekend. My sister and I would pretty up, drink up and then head down to the Velvet Underground every single Friday. It wasn’t a particularly good time in either of our lives when we started this tradition. She was miserable. I was more so. An understatement really. And this was the best kind of therapy. It started one Friday night in December 2005, after a Christmas party at the Rivioli, when Sarah and I moseyed on over to the Velvet. I remember her saying “I think you’ll like this place.” It was my Mecca. I had no idea. I had always loved to dance. But this night started it all. Hopped up on vodka cranberries, and music I actually loved, I would boogie the night away. A charmingly cute boy by the name of Stephen J Williams danced with his hands on my hips à la junior high to the White Stripes, and I was in heaven. Seriously. I invited him to Christmas Eve Chinese food, and he gave me the wrong phone number. On our way home we stumbled into a bartender who told me to never recycle men, and we bumped into a man from Florida. He makes movies. Ahem.
We made it to the Velvet almost every single Friday for the next six months. Every Monday morning my co-workers would wait with bated breath for a weekend recap. There was always a new story to be told after Friday night at the Velvet. While there were perks in the form of handsome young men, what I came back for week after week was the music and the dancing. Unfortunately things went slightly sour on the boy front, but I still clung to the Velvet. It was mine, I was not giving it up. It was sacred. So sacred in fact I refused to take a guy I was dating there because I didn’t think he deserved the experience. I was right.
But slowly and surely Sarah and I stopped going as frequently. Then Sarah stopped going altogether and I had trouble finding friends as enthusiastic about the venue as I was. And when I did manage to coerce someone to join me, it just wasn’t the same as it had been. So I went less and less. And then life got in the way as it often does. I guess.
Now, I am thrilled if I get to go out and dance once a month.
A couple months ago for my friend’s celebratory “You are the best jeweller EVER” night out we ended up at The Boat; a dirty little bar in Kensington Market. It was their “Chronoloic” night. The DJ plays all the hits from the 1840’s up to today. And it was AMAZING. I danced and danced and then face planted it outside. Blood and scars aside, it was one of the best nights I had had in a loooooooong time.
This past weekend my fabulous roommate was kind enough to invite me to join her on a jaunt home to Halifax. It was funtimes indeed! Saturday night we went out to drink it up Halifax styles. We ended up at this terrible and fabulous club called The Palace. It’s skanky, sticky , skeezey and ladies get in for free. They handed us condoms upon entry. It was perfect. We were already quite drunk care of some tequila and liquid cocaine shots previously ingested. The music was a mash up of every kind of top 40’s song, all mixed and smooshed into one another. I threw my purse at one of Emma’s friends who was less inclined to dance, and skipped out on to the dance floor. And I danced. I danced and danced and danced. I was hot and sweaty and happy. I haven’t danced like that for ages. We danced to Journey and Lady GaGa and Michael Jackson. I just let everything go, and I danced. It was like the old days. Carefree and uninhibited. Pure bliss.
So as I lie here in bed, listening to all my favourite songs to dance to, reflecting on every single amazing night of dance and all my favourite dance partners, I am giddy. It’s Emma’s birthday this weekend, and it will no doubt be fabulous.
I plan on dancing like I have danced many times before.
And it will be awesome.