girl versus dancefloor

Think of the dancefloor like a savannah, and the dancers like a food chain. At the top of the food chain, comfortable in their territory, are the big cats: well-dressed misters and rhythm-hipped sisters. Around them, the hippos, zebras and elephants gather, watching enviously and applauding fanatically like at the end of Romy and Michelle’s High School Reunion. And behind them, in a dark, sticky corner, peering out from behind the pile of handbags and jackets, you’ll find me. The limpy gazelle.

My signature dance move kind of looks like an involuntary motion somewhere between patting a large sandcastle and shrugging. Some people’s bodies naturally do attractive things under the influence of a beat; mine just flails vaguely towards the exit. The lower down the food chain you are, though, the craftier you get at dodging detection in awkward situations. That’s why this gazelle has a few sneaky survival techniques in the vicious wilderness of the d-floor:

1. Camouflage self by wearing dark clothes and moving with the fluid gesticulation of a shadow.
2. Mask the scent of rhythmic incompetence with the scent of gin.
3. Use air guitar or ironic literal actions in place of dance “moves” wherever possible (See: “Umbrella”, “No Scrubs”, any Queen song).
4. Dance from the shoulders, never the hips. Hips don’t lie. They will reveal your ineptitude.

Depending on the dancefloor, of course, ineptitude can be of little matter. When I’m at a uni party, the dancefloor heaves with a herd of gazelles moving in a gracelessness so unified it’s almost beautiful. It’s when I venture to larger, more public dancefloors that my movements attract the attention of the hungry lions.

For me, social interactions on the dancefloor are limited to holding hands and twirling or making heartfelt eye contact to sing a lyric like ‘but it’s just the price I pay! Destiny is calling me’, fists clenched with emotion. For others, social interactions on the dancefloor are limited to touching the butts of strangers. I’m not sure where you got that invitation to my pants party, guy, but it’s a fake – the only hands allowed on this booty without permission are mine. That’s kind of a fundamental respect thing.

In retaliation to such unwelcome developments, I’ve perfected a curt directive that goes along the line of ‘that’s my butt, don’t touch it’ and with a few gins evolves towards something a lot heavier on the cussing. When that fails, my entourage and I beat a hasty trail to the beer garden. Uncool. Why should I have to bow out of shaking it like a Polaroid picture just because someone’s thrown back a few beers and is getting a little handsy?

In the places I choose to frequent, this kind of behaviour doesn’t happen often, and when it does, the general glares of disapproval are usually enough to say ‘hey, we don’t tolerate that here, or anywhere, so desist, man’. I’ve visited other bars. I’ve pulled my sandcastle-patting moves out under lasers and strobes. I’ve had my butt pinched on dancefloors so crowded I couldn’t even pick a culprit to hit with my curt directive. This kind of entitled groping – whether it happens rarely or all the time – is a reminder that women’s bodies are still being commoditised under the influence of a few drinks, a tight skirt, a pounding beat. Whether you’re a leopard, or a peacock, or a limpy gazelle – the dancefloor isn’t a petting zoo. It’s a savannah, okay?