Amber L. Carter's Blog, page 78

A Month of Christmas Music. AND YOU LOVE IT.

So I've been waiting all week to do this, but I didn't out of deference and sensitivity to my Thanksgiving purist friends. But now Thanksgiving is over. So we're doing it. 
Let me be honest: I didn't always love Christmas music. Much like country music when I was younger, it didn't add meaning to my life. I wanted to listen to love songs by Boyz II Men. I didn't want to listen to "Jingle Bells" for the 50th time...that wasn't going to help me fantasize about slow dancing with my 4th grade soulmate! But as life turned into my mid-20's and iTunes became more of a thing, I started finding some pretty rad Christmas songs. Songs I really loved listening to...some that I loved listening to even when it was not the holiday season. And now I love it. I started listening to my Christmas playlist on Tuesday. I jammed that thing out on my way to my parents house for Thanksgiving. I've been bugging my family this whole time to play Christmas music (not so much because of the music, but more because I really like to bug them). 
And when I really like something, I like to share it with you fine people. So we're doing a month of radical Christmas music here on the blog. A post for every day. A different song, and maybe a different story, depending on how motivated I feel. Maybe a heartwarming story from my childhood. Maybe just a bunch of random thoughts strung together about what I think. Maybe just the song, that you can listen to at your leisure and form your own opinion about, without any interference from me. NOBODY KNOWS. It's all a surprise, here on An Amber-Colored Life. It's what keeps you alive, keeps you living. Having a sad day? Gotta live through it, so you can see what happens tomorrow on this blog. 
Alright. The first song to kick it off - aka, my all-time favorite "fun" Christmas song in the entire universe - is up next.
Hold your breath.

There's this really awesome thing called clothes. Maybe you wanna check it out sometime.

Okay, I just have to get this off my chest...I loved being a cheerleader in high school. LOVED it. And I was a cheerleader for all the right reasons, which was A. To meet boys, B. Dance at halftime, and C. Meet more boys.
The reason why I'm telling you this is because I want to cop to it before leading into the rest of the post, which was tipped off by a picture in one of my friend's Facebook feeds. 
Photo Credit: Mike SjodinLike, WTF, cheerleaders. And not even cheerleaders...WTF, Organization That Decides On The Costume Choices For Cheerleaders. 
I'm no prude. And I'm part of the feminist camp that believes that feminism is about the freedom to make your own choices vs. the freedom for me to tell my fellow sisters what I think those choices should be. But these costumes...you guys, this is ridiculous. I understand that NFL cheerleaders are meant to basically be just bouncy entertainment. I get it - though more on that in a minute - and to be fair, I wish the broadcasted games would show more of the cheerleading action, because frankly, it's the only part of the game that I truly enjoy. However, WHAT THE FUCK IS UP WITH THESE COSTUMES. Why are you even having them wear clothes? Why not just some white tassles and a purple g-string? Because you're making a mockery out of all of us. These look like cheerleader uniforms...if they had gotten stuck in the dryer on high for about seventeen days, or if you had mistakenly grabbed your 5-year-old niece's adorable Halloween costume instead. Isn't it kind of weird when the boots cover more skin than the entire costume combined? And it's November, right? As in, winter. These are not even seasonal!
And as I'm thinking/writing this, I'm trying to organize my thoughts, because I want to be clear: I'm not saying this as a judgement against these girls. These girls are great. And this isn't a bitter diatribe based on my own insecurities...you know, the kind where women try to knock other women down because they think it will somehow benefit them in any sort of way. These chicks are totally hot, and they may just motivate me to choose more chocolate-covered raisins over ice cream Snickers in the near future. But I do have a problem with where I see this going... Because right now, as this organization stands, these aren't cheerleaders. Cheerleading has had to fight long and hard over the last two decades to be recognized as a sport, and it is one - at the competition level, it is some hard-core, you-could-die-if-you-don't-do-this-right stuntman shiz. It might be a dance team, but I feel like...there should maybe be more dancing, yeah? Like, real dancing...the kind where you choreograph different moves to the beat and try out different tricks that do not primarily consist of hip-or-boob shaking. And then, I think, "glorified stripper troupe", but no...because strippers kind of give you a little bit more for your money, and they know some stuff, like how to climb a pole or do that weird thing where they lift and cross their legs in a way that looks like an optical illusion (I think it's the stripper shoes that does it...though I can't be sure, since the strippers up here in the north rely more on tricks like how to crush a beer can in between your buttocks and how to balance a lit cigarette on the top of your nipple and do a dance move without burning yourself in the process. TRUE STORIES.).
I guess my point is...if this is professional cheerleading, shouldn't there be a little bit more "professional" action going on? Like, shouldn't there be stunts or dancing that BLOW THE EFFIN' MIND?! Like if they were doing acrobatic stunts, I'd totally get it. I would look at those costumes and think, "Well, of course...wearing barely any clothes makes total sense when you're doing triple flips through the air. It's about aerodynamics!" Shouldn't we maybe stop relying so hard on the skimpy costumes as the main entertainment factor and focus a little bit more on "wowing" the crowd with...I don't know, actual talent? Because you gotta believe that these girls have it. They go through, like, 500 auditions to get on the team...they've gotta have more in their arsenal than just outstanding booty shaking skills, don't you think?

And what if...what if it's the key to winning? What if the cheerleaders started stepping up their game, and then the players were like, "WTF, those cheerleaders are showing us up!" (because that's how football players talk) and then they finally did something worth paying them millions of dollars for?

I know. The thought of the Vikings winning at anything is merely just a dream. But I guess, sometimes, that's what it's all about, here on An Amber-Colored Life. Dreaming. Changing the world... Dreaming of changing the world into a better place, for all people, even ones with names like "Mindy" who lists her abs as her best quality and cites "shopping" as her favorite hobby. Even those people. 
Believe it.

Maybe you're wondering what #chophour is all about. Maybe you're not. DOESN'T MATTER, CAUSE I'M GONNA TELL YOU EITHER WAY.

The best part of my day - of any day - is talking to kids who are killin' it. Intent on forging their own path. Of running head first into the belly of their dreams. The call and vision of The Courageous Life (thuuuug life), of figuring your own way in and finding your own way out. And there's this thing that happens when you decide, seek, to live your life this way...it's like a silent signal to the other one, like you, standing across the room. We don't live by scripts. We, to put it bluntly, cannot.
And it's stimulation: Even when I'm feeling downtrodden and close to giving up - why I don't just go find a real job? - it takes about 5 seconds, maybe even just a hello, to get psyched back up again and yell "We're DOIN' THIS!" inside my head.
My favorite is Patrick, a most excellent Groucho Blogger and one of the two rad kids behind 30 Days of Biking. Every time I hear that familiar ping of Gchat and look to see that it's Patrick, I automatically get a little psyched. Patrick and I have the same sense of vision for our lives, for our goals. And sometimes, it's nice to talk to someone who just gets how hard it can be sometimes. To focus. To slide all the distractions off the table. To be in that place where you're so jazzed about doing something, but it feels like it's taking forever to get there.
So the other day we were IM'ing about this, and I told Patrick about a success analogy I heard once that stuck with me. And it's this: Even if you took the biggest tree in the world and made one chop at it a day, eventually, that tree has to come down. It's the consistency. The push. The dedicated effort. Which, sportsfans, is something that your girl is not that great at. I am easily excitable, but also easily distracted. I'm great with ideas, but poor at follow through. I'm awesome with intentions, but trying to get better with the action piece. 
So Patrick and I had an idea. What if we put the analogy to work and dedicated one intensive hour a day toward our goals? One goal always, until we got there. One hour, every day, until we got there.  And we decided to call it #chophour. 
For me, I initially struggled because I have 3-4 really really big goals. Completing the books I'm working on and promoting the books I've already completed. Taking Groucho to the phenom level of start-ups. Building out Cyber Dating Sidekick. Which makes for a very busy - albeit exciting - life. Sometimes I feel like I'm firing on all cylinders...sometimes I feel like I'm failing. Sometimes I think I should scale back and just pick one that I focus on with intensity, and let all the others fall away until I'm done with that one and pick the others back up. But that's not how my life works, and these goals are like children - giving one of them up would be giving up a piece of what makes my life work, sing. Sophie's Choice this is not, folks.  But. Instead of feeling like I was doing different things each day for #chophour, I switched my focus. The thing that all of these goals have in common? Their inherent purpose is to get me closer to the kind of life that I want to lead, which, for me, is a very specific vision (I'm not sharing it on here. But let's say that it's easily written on a goal card) and milestone. So I don't have to feel bad about working on the book for #chophour one day and Cyber Dating Sidekick the next. As long as what I'm doing for each goal is going to lead me closer to that all-encompassing one, it still works.  So that's it. That's #chophour. Now get outta here and make some stuff happen for yourself.

Best "Sorry I got drunk last night" real-life conversation I have ever heard in my entire life.

Hippy artist with an Australian accent: "I was just feeling so disconnected...so I layed down on Mother Earth, and she took care of me."
Her girlfriend: "No, you drank a bottle and a half of vodka, wandered out into the woods, and then passed out."

Metaphorical Frying Pan, Part Two

Here's one thing that I've learned, more than anything else, from my adventures last year: When you start making decisions that actually support you and your self-worth, that are in alignment with the things you truly want instead of what you don't, it's kind of like magic. I tend to think of it as akin to dominoes, or - my favorite image and analogy, magnets: Take one piece and do with it what you want, and all the other pieces will fall into place. 
Or, it's like this:  A few weeks ago, after effectively cutting the cord with Texting Guy, I posted something on my Facebook that went along the lines of how I was bored with the dating stuff. My friend Sean commented with the old adage that sometimes you have to kiss a lot of frogs to get to the prince. My response to that - both on FB to him and in life - is that, sometimes, kissing a lot of frogs can be a lot of fucking fun. But here's what's even better, and here's what I'm learning, lately...sometimes, all those frogs? They make you appreciate it so much more when someone un-frog-like comes along.
I don't want to give the impression that I've only dated jerks. With the exception of a few tumultous, dramatic pairings, I've actually been pretty lucky to date some really great guys. And with all due honesty, sometimes, the frog has been me. I haven't been so great, with the dating and relationship stuff. I recognize the game because I've played it, and I've mocked others for it because I've learned how to win. But I kind of gave all of that up, last spring. There's this thing that happens, when you start to know and believe and recognize that you want the best for yourself and for the people around you...it becomes easier to spot and appreciate those who want the same. And like I said in Part One, sometimes it still takes some time to learn a couple of lessons that are lingering above your head. But once you do, it's like BAM! Rewarded. And sometimes it happens so fast that it makes your head spin. 
Around the beginning of the summer, I was emailing with a man I've become friends with, and we were talking about how we had both just extracted ourselves from a complicated romantic entanglement. "Why can't it just be easy?" I remember writing. "Like, why can't it just be: I like you, you like me, and it's fun and exciting and easy...it doesn't make you feel insecure, or nervous, or worried. But it never really is like that, is it?" And I remember sitting back, reading that over, and thinking, "But why not? Why isn't it? And that's what I want." 
And while it took some time to align that want with action, when it did... Along comes men who get it. Men who actually ask you out. Who actually wants to spend time with you because they want to get to know you better - really and truly, and not just because they're hoping that "getting to know you better" directly correlates with making out (which, it usually does, but the original intent is different). Men who tell you great things, and you know they actually mean them. Who make you feel like you can tell them great things back, and it's not going to be a knock down in the "Who's Chasing Who" game. Men who don't makes you wonder whether or not you're going to hear from or see them again. Who make it a point to go out of their way to show you that they do, in fact, actually like you. Who make you want to go out of your way to show them that you feel the same way. And it doesn't make you feel anxious, or bored, or nervous, or insecure. And it's great. The best. And instead of the old theory, all this honesty, these kind motions...all they do is make you like and want them more. Makes it more intense, more exciting, more fun.
So right now, I'm feeling pretty lucky. Pretty happy to have been knocked up alongside the head by that metaphorical frying pan. Because if it had come at a different time, I might not appreciate it as much as I do now. And that would be a drag, because while kissing all those frogs was some major freaking fun, I gotta say...this is so much better. And thank god for those guys, right? The ones who get it.  In my country, we call them "men"...

Metaphorical Frying Pan.

Disclaimer: This post is a two-parter, the first part of which I've been sitting on for a while now. And, in case you're new to the blog, there's a long-running disclaimer that comes with every relationship post: As a general rule and to protect the dignity of all who might be involved, I always wait a few weeks before posting relationship stuff.  So what might have been when I wrote this? May not still be. Confused? Got questions? Feel free to just ask.

There comes a time in every person's life when the universe hits you over the head with a metaphorical frying pan. It's the lesson. The one you were supposed to be learning, again and again, over the last ten years. The one where, when you stood in the kitchen tonight, stumbling over the idea that, hey, this seems really similar to that last time, you can almost see the universe throw up its hands in exasperation and hear it scream, "Amber, either do the right thing this time or go fuck yourself. 'CAUSE WE IS DONE WITH THIS!"

It's the dating. The line of men, the revolving door. The thing where you meet someone new but then, after about three weeks, you realize that they're not actually that new. They're super cute, they're a lot of talk, and at the end of the day, they don't really make you feel all that great about yourself. Because, for some reason beyond all comprehension, they think you're kind of stupid and won't catch on to what they're doing.
Here's the bane of my dating existence: I don't really like a lot of people. I date a lot, but it takes a lot for me to want to keep dating someone. So when I do meet someone I like, it's like all of my common sense goes out the window. I could be dating five guys at the same time, but sometimes it seems like it's only the one I like who drives me crazy. Who texts a lot, but never suggests hanging out. Who talks a big game, but then never follows through. Who is kind of shady, but tries to convince you that it's something else - he's just really busy, or really shy, or just really likes you so much that he doesn't know what to do with all of this.
And as I'm writing this, I know exactly what you're thinking. These guys are assholes. Why would I possibly put up with this shit? Because I like them. Because if they were dumb or conceited or arrogant, it wouldn't be a problem. But as it happens, I end up seeing something in them that surprises me, or is more than I expected, or is exactly what I feel like I'm looking for at that time. And that's what keeps me there, in that ridiculous headspace. Also - and hear me out here, because this theory is not based wholly on scientific evidence, but I think I stumbled onto something - the fact that I so rarely like someone and therefore so rarely feel that rush of dopamine (that chemical that rushes into your brain at first flush of infatuation)? I think it seriously and literally fucks with my brain, when it happens. Basically: I lose my fucking cool. All my regular practical wisdom, hard-earned knowledge, and just basic common sense goes out the window at the thought of being able to kiss him again. Yes, tell me everything you think I want to hear, and I'll believe it, because why would I not? Yes, please, let's talk about the future and how we're both going to be in it. Okay, why don't I just skip work today to hang out with you, because what is life, really, but capturing experiences as they come? I can go to work any day!

So it happened again. Even though there hasn't exactly been a drought of suitors this fall (there's something about the difference between northern Wisconsin and Minneapolis that I can't explain. While the Northwoods of WI has the sad news of having a much lower percentage of available men than Minneapolis does, the difference is that these guys actually look you in the eye and talk to you when they find you attractive, instead of acting like they don't see you while mentally planning their Missed Connection for you in their head), I still found myself waiting around for some guy who, even after texting almost every day for three weeks, still wouldn't ask me out. Right?! Joke's on me, guys. I guess when someone tells you that they like you, they really mean, "Hey, when I like someone, it means that I never want to hang out or make out with them again. So let's just keep this to small talk texting, alright? Awesome."
So I was kind of done. I say "kind of" because there could be some explanation. Maybe he does have some stuff to figure out. Maybe he really is just trying to take things slow. Maybe he forgot the twelve hours where all he could talk about was how much he liked me and wanted to show me the best of him and was going to go after me with everything he had. Maybe he's just not very good at this stuff, and I'm the jerk because I have rules and timelines and basic principles for how you treat people. And I also say "kind of" because...I don't know if you guys will believe this, but sometimes I tend to jump the gun a little bit. Be a little impatient. That kind of thing. 
So in order to kind of just chill myself out and get back to being level-headed, I threw myself into work on Monday and sorted some stuff out. I had a couple of new Cyber Dating Sidekick clients who had signed on, and so I decided that maybe I should update my profile and get stuff on there up to speed, check out what's been happening. Which I gotta say, kids, has, is, and always will be a great go-to for when you're feeling down about dating stuff. You update one little thing on there, and you've got 50 messages in your inbox from people who want to talk to you, whose first thought when they saw your picture was, "When can I hang out with this kid?" So I was feeling a little better. Calmer. Cooler. More in control of the situation. Fuck that guy, right? I've got a ton of dates to go on, and if he doesn't want to hang out, that's totally fine. Let me just pick from these ten guys and decide who gets to be the lucky recipient of an Amber-Style-Makeout (cause, not to brag or anything, but...they're pretty good. There's not a lot that I could win a Olympic medal in, but making out? Gold. The medal. Riiiight around this neck right here).

And then...

Along comes Cocaine Matt.
When I first met Cocaine Matt, I was crazy about him.  It had been years since I had met someone who knocked me back the way he did. He was smart. Funny. In a band. Creative. And so, soooo hot...the term "sexy" did not even begin to do that man justice. And he had this charm...this total confidence about him. When he wanted something, he just went for it. He could walk into a room and make everyone just stop and listen to what he was saying. And he also did that super awesome thing where he kind of picked you up as he was kissing you goodnight, which kind of drives me crazy because only the sexiest, most skillful guys know how to do that. On our first real date, after he kissed me - really, really kissed me - I was so happy I was dizzy, and for the next three hours.
But then he got weird. He would text and make plans and then bail. Then, even if he kept those plans, he would show up late and be so...erratic...that it was kind of overwhelming. One moment he would be really into what we were doing, and then the next moment he would be all, "Okay, I gotta go." One night he showed up at a party of mine wearing the exact same clothes he had been wearing when we hung out the night before. Towards the end of the night, he was so hyped up that I looked over at one of my friends and my friend just did a simple finger-to-the-side-of-the-nose gesture. Suddenly it all made sense. And then, in the next second, as if right on cue, Cocaine Matt suddenly announced he was leaving...I walked him down to the door, he kissed me goodbye, and I never heard from him again. 
He didn't totally disappear, though. I saw him again last spring at a party, and I knew from a couple of profile searches for a client that he was still online. Part of me wanted to just write him a message and be all, "So... ever going to tell me why you just took off and I never heard from you again?"  Because, let's face it - you just don't really do that to people (or at least you don't if you're not entirely an asshole). And I kind of deserve to know, right? But I also don't want to know. Don't really need to know. All I really needed to know, from that scenario, was that here was a guy who was unpredictable, inconsistent, and inconsiderate. And even though I liked him, that didn't actually make me feel good, at the end of the day. Because that's supposed to be the whole point, right? If I like you, and you say that you like me back, that should be a good thing, right? Hopefully? Yes? 
So tonight, while online, I saw that Cocaine Matt had checked out my profile. Read it. And I looked at his profile picture and kind of thought for a minute about how psyched I was about him, when we first met. How attracted to him I was, and how bleak, disappointed, I felt when things didn't work out the way I wanted them to. I thought about Psycho Travis, and how I'm now in the exact same scenario from the last time I was here: In this weird, confusing dance with a pretty, mysterious stranger, and there might not really be anything else (or anyone else) better to do right now, so maybe I can just wait around until he makes up his mind and gets his shit together and starts acting like an actual person.

And then it hit me, and then I felt like an idiot.

And this, my friends... This is what I'm supposed to learn. This guy, this current one...he's not someone new. He's another one put in my path to see if I finally get it, if I've finally learned my lesson. Which is: To stand up for myself. To finally realize that I don't deserve to have my time wasted, especially since I wouldn't be okay with wasting yours. That actions speak louder than words. That when I like someone, it doesn't give them a free pass to dick behavior. That I'm not the kind of girl who's okay with being put on the hook, but sometimes, they're not going to figure that for themselves. It's up to me to prove that to them, and to myself.

So 10-69, Universe. Message received. Noted. And this girl? Taking herself off the hook, and for good.

And btw, Cocaine Matt? Stop looking at my profile.

Nighttime is the right time.

I've been pulling a lot of overnights for Emergency Dispatch training. At first, I was dreading the thought of doing one of these...working overnights at Holiday during the best time of my life and doing the same type of shifts at that one place I now refer to as, "You're locked up because you're 15 and stupid and now I have to take care of you, so shut up." used to be kind of torture. Or rather, they weren't that bad until about 5:00, when the sleep dep hits and you still have about two more hours to go. 
But. The overnight shifts for Em. Dispatch? Kind of pretty awesome. I actually get to do stuff and practice my skillz, the deputies who work overnights are hilarious, and it's actually been kind of a breeze, in terms of sleep vs. wake. Also, the plus side to it also comes on nights like this, when it's 1:45 am, I'm wide awake, and there is literally nothing else to do but write. 
I don't know if you guys know this about me yet or not, but I tend to get easily distracted. Facebook...I can't handle it. My Facebook is now like what the blog used to be like when I lived in Spooner...tons of hilarious comments that keep me entertained for hours. And during the day, there's just so many more demands and distractions, it seems. At 2:00 am? No one is talking (no one, that is, except for me and my old elementary-school pal Tony, who also works a night shift). There's no text messages to check your phone every fives minutes for. There's no emails flying into your inbox that you must read immediately and then wait two weeks to respond to (at least, that's how I do that email thing). No one is writing new blog posts, the news is slow, and people don't seem to really love it when you call them at 3 in the morning to just, you know, see what they're up to.
And so you're in this weird limbo - maybe, sometimes, you don't feel like writing. Maybe you're in the middle of this hard fucking chapter where nothing is making sense and you're second-guessing everything and you're tired about writing this, anyway, especially when you know you're just going to go back and change everything in the second draft, but you've been working on this fucking chapter for two months now and you have to finish it or else you're never going to get anything else done and oh is that a new notification on Facebook? Huh, guess it's not. So unless you want to just sit there and stare at the wall, maybe you should just write some stuff.
Liiiike, this blog post. Or, that email that I should have responded to two weeks ago. Oh yeah, and that book that I moved up here to write...

Morning pages.

Up early to write. Listening to this and biding my time before I turn off the internet and my phone and set about to work.
My friend Erica is off to India. My new friend Manthei made me spit out my coffee with her email about it being book time, book time, all about book time, and my aunt coming over to have a heart-to-heart (my aunt has been gleefully jumping in on the case of me giving up dating and finding a "good hobby or a fulfilling, challenging job where [I] can overwork."). In the mornings I carry hot tea up the loft where I sit and close my eyes and have a hard time picturing Iceland and whales and the symbols of all the things that actually matter to me, no matter where I am. So I've tacked pictures of them up to the bulletin board above my desk so I can look at them all the time. So that I remember. This place is just not me, not yet. And that's okay. I am being patient, am seeking out the things that might make it so. Kate started this thing that I only just caught on to on Twitter, this list of things she wants to do to make it the best winter of her life. Because sometimes you need that...that list, that determination. So when the snow hits, I will snowshoe and cross-country ski and take long walks on the snow-laden trails. Keep my mind on artists and athletes. Books and bicycles. Write and be quiet and wait for the sun to come back around, for you to come back home.

Dance-Date-Rape

I love dancing. I love dancing so much that I do it almost every damn day. Sometimes, I even do it by myself, when I'm alone, during special private moments. Mostly, though, I feel like dancing should be shared between people: Ideally, people who know and like each other. Or at least people who think that the other person is cool when they spot them across the room, like the way you probably would if you saw Lionel Richie at your cousin's wedding, or like the way you would hope Lionel Richie would feel about you if he saw you across the room at his cousin's wedding. "Hey man, that kid looks cool. Let's dance. Fiesta forever." 

But sometimes, you just don't feel like dancing. Maybe you're like, "I hate this song" or, "I haven't had time to work on my moves" or, "I am wearing the wrong outfit for that dancefloor, as everyone else is wearing jeans and t-shirts and I had to come straight from work in a black sequined dress and high-heeled boots." Whatever it is, it's okay. You don't have to dance all the time. Sometimes, despite what MTV tells you, it's better to save the dancing for when you're really in the mood. 

But sometimes people don't really get this. Maybe you're out with friends...maybe those friends have other friends who decide they want to get to know you better...maybe those friends of friends decide that the only way to do this is to make you dance with them. And maybe you don't want to dance with them - it's nothing personal, but c'mon, you don't know these people, and you've got this black sequined dress on and you hate this song and you're going to look stupid and you're not in the mood for it anyway and you know that if you give in and go out there with them that those girls are going to start dancing up on each other and you're going to - once again - be that lone girl out there who's trying to valiantly dance by herself and act like she's not the nerd who doesn't know anybody and doesn't just break out into moves from the "Beat It" video when she's feeling nervous and unsure. 

So this is how you feel. And you have a right to these feelings. But then the friend that you came with - the one who's SUPPOSED to have your back in times like these - disappears, probably to once again make out with a girl he doesn't even really like. Then the friend that you're talking with gets carried off himself by a date-dance-rape gang. At first you kind of laugh - you can't help it, he never dances, and now they're making him, so this is hilarious - but then all of a sudden, they turn and start to go after you. "You're our Native sister!!!" They yell. "I belong to another triiiiibe!" You try to protest. "I'm not even enough to be legal!" as they pull you off your chair and almost literally carry you off to the dancefloor. You look at your friend: He has the same desperation in his eyes that you now feel. You suddenly feel awful for laughing. This is horrible, a nightmare...how are you guys going to get out of this? You try to fake them off - you do a couple of moves, half-heartedly, hoping that once they see you dance they let you go. "Fuckin' DANCE!" One of the girls yells. Your heart sinks - it didn't work. The girls are now holding hands, dropping it like it's hot, and you're standing there, like an idiot, in a black-sequined dress, wondering how it was that you ever loved dancing. Is this how everyone feels when you make them dance, too? God, all those years of buying Katy shots and then making her dance with you...you never realized how it might have made her feel. You are a horrible person. 

Finally the song changes. You look at your friend, he looks at you. This is your one chance to get off this dancefloor alive. You do a dance step towards your table - just a sidestep, not that obvious, if anyone were watching you they would just think you were warming up to the song - and he follows your lead. You hold your breath as the two of you do a couple more - are they watching? if they catch us escaping, what will they do to us? - and then, as the edge of the dancefloor is in sight, you can't help it...the taste of freedom is so heavy on your tongue that you both break out into a walk/run to your table. 

You try to tell someone. You feel like, Maybe I'll need to talk about this someday, even though I'm too traumatized to talk it about right now. You're thinking about the future. And your friend...he went through it, too. He might need someone to be there for him when he's ready to heal. So you text someone about it. You try to explain what happened, but it just ends up coming out all wrong. "I don't ever want to talk about this," your friend tells you, when you tell him that maybe you guys should tell someone. "I don't ever want to think about the date-dance-rape ever again." You nod, and turn your head, towards the dancefloor. You used to love dancing, you think to yourself. You used to love dancing so much, sometimes you didn't care who you did it with. But that was when you had a choice. Now, it all just feels different. Now you feel like...maybe, you don't want to dance anymore, ever. At least not until you can shake off this feeling...this thing that coats you now and will never really come off, like that body glitter your friend once jokingly sprayed you with before a date that one time. Powerlessness. That awful feeling of pretending that you're not mad, whatever, no big deal, while inwardly you're seething...how dare you spray me with that stuff when you know that it never comes off, not even after five showers, and now he's going to think that I put it on myself, and probably because I want him to take my shirt off which is even worse because he's kind of a bad kisser and I don't know if I ever want him to take my shirt off but now it's going to look like I do and I THOUGHT YOU WERE MY FRIEND. 

Trying to throw off that memory, you play with your earring as you stare out the window, off into the distance. You look at your friend...he, too, is gazing off, lost in thought, memory. Your eyes meet, and then you follow his eyes back to the dancefloor. You watch, stomach dropping, as one of the girls on the dancefloor turns and looks at you. The song has changed. She nudges her friends and points over at you and your friend, and as she does, you know this is never going to end.

#textmaster

I love those nights when you're feeling juuust confident enough about all those texts you sent earlier to delete them before bed so you won't have to wake up the next morning and second-guess everything you said, thus ruining your entire next day.

I'm really good at this stuff, you guys.