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We can dance if we want to, we can leave your friends behind
2005-09-24 - 6:51 a.m.

I've been sitting here for the past few minutes, reading an entry in gumphood's diary about wingmen and thinking back to my own dancing days. I can't say that I ever remember being wingmanned, but it's been an interesting trip down memory lane.

I think someone *tried* to wingman me once, when I was at the Beacon Hill Pub with my friend Brett and Her Breasts (they entered the room a full beat before the rest of her), but since we were standing in front of the bar playing darts, and since Andrew the Bartender and I had already flirted over a pint of Ciderjack, he wasn't very successful. Important lesson, guys--don't choose the girl your bartender is already hitting on. All it will do is insure bad service in your direction for the rest of the night. You'll go home alone AND thirsty.

Brett and I went out every weekend for a few months, shortly before I met Tim. In fact, I met Tim through her, rather indirectly. We spent most of our Saturday nights at this place in the Alley at Boylston Place. I don't remember the name of it now, but it's long since turned into some other cheesy bar. They had 80's alternative night on Saturday. Brett's teeth were so white they glowed in the blacklight. We drank Zima and Ciderjack (hey--it was the early 90's and we were girls--what do you want?!) and danced our butts off and flirted with boys every chance we got.

One night in particular, I remember being there with Brett. My officemate Michael and my friend Phil were there with the rest of their band, too, and we were all dancing together. There was a profession of love in my direction mixed in there that night, unrequited, unfortunately for the very unhappy professor. John, the guitarist, brought some friends along with very big wallets. I'm not sure, actually, how many drinks I had that night. The glass never actually hit empty but just got replaced with a new glass. Try as they might, though, to change the outcome, Brett and I went home together, alone, to her apartment.

I never--NEVER--met a guy in a bar and went home with him. Never even *kissed* a guy I met in a bar IN a bar, or on the street outside, or in a shared cabride to Kelly's Roast Beef at Revere Beach for some late-night fried food. And in the time we played together, Brett never did, either. We took home phone numbers, sure. But mostly, we were there to dance, and you were welcome to dance with us, but that was pretty much as far as it was going to go.

Michael, my office mate, did meet a girl in a bar. More specifically, it was a G Love concert at Avalon. They met, talked, made out a little, and then made plans to meet for lunch the following Monday since they both worked downtown. He told me Monday morning about his weekend and the planned lunch. He went, but confessed to me on the way out the door that he didn't actually remember the girl's name. They ended up dating for years. I never liked her. She never liked me. It was a fair trade.

I once had a guy tell me we were meant to be together forever because I knew that the song playing while we danced together was by Morrissey. Dude--I do NOT want to spend the rest of my life with someone who is obsessed with MORRISSEY! Downer much? He couldn't understand why I didn't want to kiss him on the dance floor.

At a bachelorette party at the now-defunct Irish Embassy in Easton, I once had a guy read my license when I was paying for a drink for the bride-to-be. He and I talked for a bit and danced for a bit. At the end of the night, I declined to give him my number, having told him *several times* that I had a boyfriend already. Two nights later, our phone rang. He'd found our listing, having seen my name on my license. He and I had a deep discussion about how No means No.

The last time I went out dancing (sadly, we're talking years here), I went with six or so other women. All of us except my friend Margaret and me were married or engaged at the time. Margaret was horribly, messily drunk, and the fratboys circled her like vultures at a meat party. They did the "dance up behind you and rub against you and see if you rub back" dick manouver. Their problem, though, was that the rest of us were *not* horribly, messily drunk, and we were all old enough to see the dick manouver for what it really was--drunk guys being dicks. Margaret went home alone that night, too. She didn't understand why. That's the downside to the whole horribly, messily drunk thing...

I don't miss those parts. But I wouldn't pass up the opportunity to head out onto the dancefloor again. Perhaps the wedding rings and the post-baby pooch would be enough to deter the boys. 80's alternative night, anyone?

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