RACHEL'S COLUMNS
These articles appeared in Rachel's column every Friday in the A3 section of The Age
Stomp that stiletto - it's murder on the dance floor
30th July 2004
I like to keep my weekends simple and calm so I can have my anxiety attacks without any of the usual distractions. Last weekend, feeling like I needed to engage with other humans, I allowed myself to be lured out of the fleecy comfort of my Ug boots and into a pair of lip-curling stilettos. The time was right to expose a bit of toe-cleavage and go dancing. Although it's well documented that you don't have to go out into the rugged outdoors in a jeep to experience a bumpy ride or encounter strange creatures, nothing can prepare you for the empty-headed drivel and desperate late-night propositions of the singles scene.
Some singles complain that because of internet dating the singles scene is dying and that even the term "singles scene" is no longer appropriate or kewl. Call me an old fashioned grrrl but I'm into nostalgia and however you want to call it, there's a bunch of singles out there rubbing up against each other and trying to establish a little eye contact. These people are looking for companionship, understanding or maybe even undying love – all I wanted was someone who'd dance with me without trying to make meaningful conversation.
That may sound a little mercenary but I'd had one of those weeks where every phone conversation delivered a bigger and more hideous kind of conflict to be dealt with. You know the sort of dialogue where the person you're speaking to sounds as if they've been on the Liver Cleansing diet for so long they've flushed out their personality? Nothing you say seems to register with them, so you're left feeling as though your arteries will explode from the frustration of having to engage with a person who's got less brains than tasty cheese. I decided it was best I go out and swivel my hips to a Latin groove rather than swing a blunt instrument at someone.
But life is never simple (or is it just my life?) and the evening delivered a host of swamp creatures. The first guy I danced with went to the toilet and never came back. The next one became sullen and slinked away with his mate. Then there was the idiot who insisted on doing the limbo with my scarf raised above his head. I did however manage to overlook major character flaws – mine and theirs – and discover a whole new wonder-world of dancing partners. Here are some danger signals that could help you work out sooner that things just may not happen on the dance-floor as expected.
The Smoocher dances slowly – really slowly, like treacle going up a wall. He rubs his leg up and down your thigh like a hungry cat even if the music is fast and pounding. The rhythm has no impact on his style whatsoever – he doesn't care – he'll just keep on moving as though he's dancing to an Andre Boccelli ballad. The danger here is not his vice-like grip, but a broken eardrum as he annoyingly continues to exhale straight into your ear.
The Twirler, twirls you endlessly around and around like a top and because you've usually had way too much to drink you either throw up, fall in a heap or in the worst case scenario both at the same time. My hunch is that this guy was never breast-fed and consequently he's not exactly sure how to hold a woman. And because he's too embarrassed to actually look you in the face – he just keeps spinning you around to avoid eye contact.
The Preener: this is where you'll get trodden on the most. This neatnik is so distracted playing with his hair, fixing his shirt collar or even pulling up his socks that he doesn't notice he's stomping all over you. Don't be surprised if he seriously injures a stranger on the dance-floor with a flying elbow.
The Boss, dances like he's doing you a huge favour. He glides around you laughing in a deep booming voice as though you're standing in another room and may not hear him. You can tell that he'd rather be dancing alone in front of a mirror. He's also a much better dancer than you are and you both know it!
