Have you ever gone to a dance by yourself?
No?
You annoyingly popular human, you.
Fine. Just pretend that you have. Imagine what it’s like. Picture this:
You’re walking down a dimly lit street, trying to look purposeful and also as if you’re going to an enjoyable event and not a crime scene investigation or your own execution. This is difficult, as you are alone. If you walk slowly, you appear up to something. If you walk quickly, you seem frenzied and paranoid. If you smile, or, worse, if you laugh and chat to yourself, someone’s sure to call the police. If you frown or gaze steadfastly into the distance, someone’s sure to call the police. The point is, it’s not easy.
Finally, you see figures ahead of you and your ears pick up the first lively notes of a polka. This may be different for you, depending on where you live, but I happen to live in a town that enjoys polka music in the streets.
You slide surreptitiously between dancers and elderly watchers, sidling down the sidewalk to an empty place on the curb where you can sit unnoticed and scan the crowd for friends and acquaintances who may or may not be present. To look like you have a purpose, you take off one shoe and pretend to shake rocks out of it. This lasts for only 2.9 seconds before it looks suspicious, considering it’s a sandal. To buy yourself more time, you decide to casually “adjust the strap” of your sandal before putting it back on your foot. You go so far as to remove the strap completely, just so you can spend a few more seconds putting it back where it belongs. You find that putting it back is not as easy as taking it off, even though it should technically involve the same level of skill.
You struggle.
Your sandal sits, complacently obstinate, in your lap.
You sweat.
People glance at you and smile, knowingly, sadly, as if to say “ah yes, look at that lonely individual, pretending to fix her sandal so it will look as if she’s got a reason not to be dancing. She’s been working on it for twenty minutes now, it’s obviously a ploy. How depressing. How sad.”
You finally give up in disgust and anger and hurl your sandal onto the ground beside you, which instantly complicates the situation as a strange older man sits down and asks if he can help you in any way. You feel strange about asking a stranger to fix your stank shoe, so you pick it back up as if you hadn’t just cursed it into the gutter, and keep trying to fix it.
Your fingernails begin to bleed.
The stranger comments on one of your mutual friends, which reminds you that he is not a stranger, but, in fact, someone you met only a few weeks ago and spent several hours with. You explain that you were concerned when he sat down because you thought he was a stalker. You tell him you’re relieved to recognize him. You decide it’s socially acceptable to ask a one-time acquaintance to fix your shoe. He does, so quickly that you feel insulted and weak.
You resolve to hurl yourself and your sandals off the next bridge you see. You walk away sideways, thanking him again, before you disappear into the crowd.
Then you dance.
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