An Ode to the Club (not 'da Club' though I do love Fity)

It's been a short 14 years since I last posted something here; if this blog were a teenage girl she’d have gotten her period, braces, and possibly herpes by now. But rather than doing any sort of unnecessary recap (though, worth confirming at this point that neither the blog nor its author have gotten herpes), we're going to jump right in. I might not have put my thoughts on the interwebs in a very long time, but you know I've definitely been capturing them along the way. And it just feels right to share some of those words again. Even if no one reads this, it's still thrilling to know that someone COULD read it. It’s as exhilarating as meth but way safer.

I wrote this on a plane ride home from Vegas recently, while overthinking and self analyzing my affection for strange dark places.

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We go out (searching?), so that in the presence of all the unknowns, things of certainty show themselves starkly. Searching unknown faces for affirmation of our own qualities, the validation that we picked the right dress, the right look, the right amount of drink.

Moving together, not knowing each other’s struggles and victories, but it simply being enough to be in the shared moment, released. Unified in our common pursuit of anonymous abdication of reason and logic. Judged only for appearances and not having to pretend that we are  anything more than that. Outside of the club we dress up our insecurities in the fabric of forced personality, shaped by expectations and norms, trying to meet someone else’s ideal of being funny enough, smart enough, wholesome enough. Inside the club, that all falls away. We are at our most naked - figuratively and often literally, too.  Judge me only for my body, my face, my moves. Give me the immediate gratification of your intentions and assessments - positive or negative. It’s the straightest talk we have, unshrouded and uncomplicated. It’s an over-thinker’s paradise of straightforward intentions.

This is why I love a dark, overbearingly loud club. I am freed from making my personality speak for me, from quieting my geekiness, my constant self doubt (making myself small enough to not be a bother). I am untethered from forcing my space, making a show of my worth, proving my good-enough with every witty comment. When my insides aren’t seeking your validation, they don’t feel so less-than and up for impending rejection. Instead I can simply be my outside and know that the reaction is nothing more than that. I can dance and fling my arms and torso around with abandon, knowing that when I leave this smoky space I’ll be myself again, filled with hesitation and pause. But for these few hours, I’m just that girl with the huge smile, no cares, and writhing torso.