An Open Letter

Dear Hot Girls at the Club,

You are standing at the bar or against the wall and your back is leaning against it so that everyone can see you. You are wearing something tight and short. Your hair falls shiny and perfect past your shoulders. If we were in a well-lit place you’d look amazing, but it’s pretty dark in here so you’re mostly a silhouette. Your feet are strapped in to a pair of heels that I’m guessing are about 6 inches, complete with those platforms at the front that I hate so much. No one can walk in those shoes without looking like a Clydesdale. But you aren’t walking.

You aren’t doing anything. You are standing there with your friends. It’s loud, the music has a beat that makes your bones vibrate and it never pauses for more than a second. You can’t talk with this kind of music. At best you can yell directly into someone’s ear and they understand about half of what you say. But it’s okay for you, you’re not talking. A couple of you pull out your phones now and then and seem very interested in something, but that’s the extent of it.

It’s dark, it’s loud, there are only two things here: the bar and the music. And that’s all you can do: drink and dance. That’s what this place is for. You have  it about half right. You have a drink in your hand. I haven’t seen you drink it, though. 

Then again, maybe you’ve been drinking it a lot. I could’ve missed it. Because I am dancing. And when I dance I tend to focus on that, not so much on who is around and what they’re doing and whether they’re looking at me and what they might be thinking about me. Of course, it’s also presumptuous of me to assume that you’re thinking about these things. I’m just guessing. But I have to guess because I am so confused by you.

What are you doing here? 

Like I said before, I am dancing. It’s not something I do a lot. And by not a lot I mean never. But I’ve been feeling brave lately. (You don’t know this, but “gutsy” is my word of the year.) I am out tonight with my friend Di. At a glance, the two of us don’t appear to have a lot in common with you. We are both well over 30. We’ve had children. Our clothes aren’t as short and as tight as yours. Our heels are definitely not as high. If you catch us at the right moment we might be holding a drink, but that moment doesn’t last long. Because of the dancing.

We don’t dance the way you do, either. Most of you aren’t dancing at all, it’s like you’re standing in a silent room. The few of you that seem to realize there is music have a slight bump in your hip or a little toss of your head. 

We are moving. I close my eyes a lot. Because when my eyes are closed I just stop thinking and when I have my eyes open I get a little more self-conscious. I am not here to care about what anyone thinks. There are guys here, though it’s not my primary goal. I’m here for me, running into a guy could happen here, but it’s okay if it doesn’t.

The funny thing is, though, the guys keep floating around my friend and I. We are cute, but average, especially considering the other girls in the room. There is a bachelor party here, they look like guys in their late 20’s or early 30’s. Younger than us. The kind of guys I’d expect to make a play for you. And yet the only girls they’ve danced with are me and Di. 

We don’t take them home. We barely speak to them. Di and I dance in spite of them or around them more than we dance with them. They seem to think they know what we want. To be honest, I’d prefer it if they just danced and didn’t try so hard. 

One of them says to me, “You’re so sexy, the way you’re dancing, holding your purse. You know exactly what you’re doing.” And I want to laugh. I want to say back to him, “I don’t know exactly what I’m doing. I know nothing. I’m just not thinking about it.” I wonder if he realizes that it’s me not paying much attention to him that has him so interested. But it hasn’t occurred to him. He, I’d bet, is used to girls like you who seem so calculated. If we were having dinner, I’d be itching to leave, but it matters less here. I can keep dancing, so I do.

He brings us tequila shots. Which apparently is an effort to distract us from the fact that the next 2 rounds he brings us are Bud Light. Is this what club guys are like? I don’t know. I’d guess that you do, but like I said, I’d be assuming. It’s possible that you never do this either. It’s possible that you’re standing there on the sidelines because you don’t know what to do.

This guy, he’s not a total mystery. He either does this all the time or this is the first time he’s done this in ages.

My friend and I aren’t a mystery either.

You’re the ones I don’t understand. Maybe there’s something I’m missing.  There is a lot of dancing but it isn’t a really jubilant kind of dancing. And there isn’t much joy radiating from you, either.

But it’s too loud for me to ask you any questions. I’m not sure I would if I could, because there’s something about the way you’re standing there that makes me think you don’t want anyone to talk to you. (But this could, once again, just be me.)

So I hope you had a good night. I hope you enjoyed yourself somehow. I hope you got what you came for, even if I have no idea what that is. It will probably be a while before I see you again. This isn’t something I can do all the time. It wiped me out for much of the next day and my feet are still sore. I want to save it so it stays crazy and fun and a little bit magical. 

Until then,

The Girl Who Just Danced


  1. says

    I know those girls. Maybe not the ones you saw that night, but “those girls”. (And guys for that matter)

    There were times I could have been seen as one of them (‘cept not hot – cute, put together, not hot.) on nights I didn’t really want to be there, but felt for whatever reason I had to go. Other nights I was the one on the dance floor filled with energy and happiness just to be out and about and bopping around.

    I discovered after working with some through the years on a work projects that “those girls” had serious insecurities and were often really sad, unhappy people who generally had little to say.

    Now when I see them, I feel bad that they’re so unhappy. Life is too short.

    Unrelated. Somehow, attached to this post are comments from a 2008 Tech(?) post.
    Court recently posted..Frank said…#83

    • says

      Is that what it is? It was my guess but I’m so removed from it that I couldn’t be sure.

      (Also, weird commenty weirdness has been removed. That was unusual.)

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