March 21, 1999

Sore Thumbs

Stick out like a sore thumb--that's me at a dance. I went to one tonight, one in fact that for some strange reason I helped plan it. It had all the fixings of a proper dance. The music was loud enough to remind me of the hereditary deafness in my family and that I should get my hearing checked. Disco and strobe lights were common enough to induce seizures in epileptics three states away. And most importantly, I did not fit in.

Dances are not meant for the quiet, shy, engrossed in thought types. There are hundreds of active people wildly gyrating their bodies in movements like bolero, mambo, or any other word ending in -o. The place is dark and loud, so despite the crowds, people can't really talk, making an idea or comment set up permanent residence in your head. Then, music is played. A majority of these songs are meant to pull at the heart strings, inducing even more meditation upon life. A person like me becomes trapped in their thoughts.

But no, this is not allowed to happen. The active, outgoing types are in control here. Though whether these people or the quiet ones exist in greater numbers in this world is unknown, they make their presence known here, so no matter whether it is pseudo or not, their majority rules. You must dance, you must gyrate those hips, swivel those gluteus maximuses. Clothing is also essential. You must look good with perfect fitting clothes so as to not give the impression that in ordinary life that you are simply a slob.

Sometimes, one's innate physical ineptitude can protect you from the dance aerobics, allowing you to stand aloof on the sidelines, but this opens you up for the greatest thrill of them all--the pity dance. Some "caring" (a synonym for "coerced" here) person offers to dance with you, so you're given a fine dilemma. Sure, I can stand fast and claim who I am, but this refusal to dance is an instant disturbance in the dance force. People won't care what your reasons are, they just hold you in contempt for a while. And if I do accept the dance, I've violated my own principles if I truly don't want to dance with some "caring" stranger.

Of course, this is the answer: to simply go with the flow and deny any of my own personal feelings about the matter. Unfortunately, I barely know how to be me, so how am I supposed to not be me?

It's obvious I don't like dances. The noise, the group mentality, the sticking out like a sore thumb. Tonight was no better, but I would sa worse. Forget the pity dance. In the only chair bathed in light so that people could take pictures, I watched a girl bawl her eyes out. Several people were around consoling her and looking an empathic depressed and down and out, till some one carried her off and moments later, these people were back to cheer and joy like it never happened. I did not know the girl or what happened or how to do anything to help her; I accept that. I still felt upset though. I could not immediately do a one-eighty on my emotions, and I don't see how anyone could do that. So, once again the discomfort is on my part.

I did what I had to, I walked away from the dance. I hung around for about two hours outside till it was time to clean up. This time alone really wasn't any help though. Stilled trapped in my thoughts, or one thought for that matter, the night and dance bothered me still. It was not the pity dance nor the crying girl nor the fear of going deaf, it was simply every fiber of my being wanted me to do something because it just feels right, but every same fiber knowing quite well that I shouldn't because she does not need to hear that and it would just make things worse, yet... she was there, looking nicer than I had ever seen before. And I've probably just made it worse.

I was coward for running away. There was nothing heroic in not giving in to the dance. I kept myself sticking out like a sore thumb. And when I left, no one really cared or missed me. No one misses a sore thumb.

P.S. There was one good thing about the night; I learned I have a really good friend. Thanks Ryan.