Sober Dancing

or Feeling Buck Naked

I was sober dancing the other night and I'm going to level with you. Even for an above average dancer (I mean, I used to do hip-hop with JT’s backup dancers at the Edge in LA—I’m not horrible!), I can tell you that the inherent awkwardness of such an act can open your eyes up to some deep life shit real quick.

First, why was I at a late-night dance party like an 8-year-old who hasn't yet discovered the liquid confidence of alcohol-infused twerking when I used to be a bonafide party girl and say things about wine like, “I’m getting notes of licorice and dirt-sprinkled toothpaste?” There was a time—from age 21 (and by that of course I mean 17?) to 40--when I couldn't fathom going out for a night of dancing without drinking. DUH, drinking and dancing go together like endless puns and ChatGPT! But when life got really hard during the pandemic as a single mom in isolation with a tiny human and stressful job, and I was looking a bit too forward to my wine at the end of every single day (IS IT 5 O’CLOCK YET SO THIS CAN BE SOCIALLY ACCEPTABLE?!?!?), I thought to myself: you know what would make my life harder? Accidentally becoming an alcoholic. And not in an oh, Caroline, you’re so silly and dramatic kind of way. I looked at a beautiful bottle of wine that I could easily crush with increasing tolerance and paused long enough to hear some danger bells ringing. Isn't this how it happens? I mean, nobody grows up thinking I'M GOING TO BE AN ALCOHOLIC WHEN I GET OLDER! Nobody means to go from sipping a sophisticated Old Fashioned by a fireplace to getting served divorce papers after verbally assaulting your family on a private jet (Brad Pitt, not me). It just slowly creeps up over time while we don't notice, like dust on a baseboard. The fear of the sheer possibility of my life getting any harder was enough to send me on a 3-year journey to significantly change my relationship with alcohol. I now recognize booze as the alluring bad boy asshole it is—he’ll be a good time, but ultimately leave me sad and potentially diseased. And while I used to love me some bad boys, I’m a grown ass woman with child now so no thank you. Of course, nobody is perfect and I still have a drink every once in a while because sometimes you just need to indulge in a bad boy and one of my friends is a wine distributor so WHEN IN ROME. But I'm no longer drinking on the regular, so back to the dance party. 

This dance party was SO MUCH FUN. The most fun I've had in a long time. Child-free, carefree, surrounded by friends and sexy strangers, with a DJ who made you want to scream, "OMG, I LOVE THIS SONG!!!" every 36 seconds. As fun as it was, it was equal parts make me want to crawl out of my own skin and die of awkwardness. Dancing at a party by yourself without booze or hordes of your closest college friends or a lusty object of your affection or even so much as a prop stripper pole feels so vulnerable. I was so aware of myself like some awko-taco tween with a face full of pimples. I was feeling the old school beats in the depths of my soul but then my body did an involuntary move like when old people do that sidestep and snap thing, and I instantly wanted to go lock myself in the bathroom in a rocking fetal position until every last party guest left.

But the thing is that nobody was looking at me. Nobody cared about me or my moves because they were in their own dance bubbles sweating it out to the next party anthem. I watched one guy who was pure joy--dancing in his own imaginary, personal spotlight with reckless abandon--and wondered WHY CAN'T I BE THAT FREE? Why do I even think about what I might look like to other people? They don't care. I'm the freak who cares. 

One of the big reasons I stopped drinking was to see more clearly. I wanted to remove the seductively blurry filter off of myself, others, and life so I could ultimately tune in more and feel more alive. I've come to learn that "feeling alive" sounds nice in theory but it also means sitting with discomfort—OWWWW!!!!—which you never have to feel so bluntly when there's a cocktail nearby to take the edge off. So here I am sober dancing, feeling the discomfort of what—self-consciousness, insecurity, realization that I need people to think I'm freaking cool at age 43??—hoping the Beastie Boys drown out my own inner dialogue that's turning into an existential shame spiral: WHAT'S WRONG WITH ME? JUST DANCE! LOOK AT THAT GUY, HE'S SO FREE, JUST LET GO! WHY CAN'T I LET GO? IT FEELS SO GOOD TO DANCE BUT I ALSO WONDER IF I SHOULD JUST IRISH GOODBYE AND BEELINE IT TO MY THERAPIST'S OFFICE?

I am in awe of people who are so purely, authentically themselves. I read every Vanity Fair cover to cover, enthralled with the stories of some of the most creative and talented people on Earth who seem to say F THE WORLD, IMA DO IT MY WAY and I want to be text-level best buddies with these bosses. I bet they can sober dance without one ounce of self-consciousness. At least I imagine they can?

I always whine about desperately wanting people to be real and deep and true, but maybe I need to look in the mirror. What if—horror of horrors—I'M the one who is so obsessed with being perceived in a certain way that I can't even be myself? I'm not even sure what that means but there's obviously a direct link to dropping it like it's hot without pause. 

Do you know that I was in a four-year relationship with a manboy and I never let him see me brush my teeth even once? Do you know how DEEPLY DISTURBING that is? I always wanted to be "shiny"—the after picture, not the before or in-progress one. On the surface, maybe it's not a big deal, and we can blame the patriarchy and all. Or it could be a HUGE FUCKING DEAL, as in, doomed to a life of never embracing one's true self.

Sober dancing made me wonder if knowing and embracing ourselves as authentically and vulnerably as possible is the purpose of life. And all the other shit is just pure distraction. We are busy and important. We are educated and smart. We make money and are successful. We smile at people and are nice. But aren't these all just perceptions? Judgements of another? Couldn't someone just as easily deem that we're not important, smart, successful or nice? I'm not sure any of these things are inherently true at our human core. 

It’s one of the reasons I’m obsessed with the new Barbie movie. Not only am I most definitely asking for a life-size cardboard cut-out of Ryan Gosling as Ken for Christmas, but this brilliantly hilarious movie spoke right to my heart as Barbie and Ken end up on a quest to find themselves. If you’re not your dream house or limited edition outfit or cool accessories, then who are you?

I always feel the need to BE something. To be recognized as something. Being something roots you in an identity. Be an entrepreneur. Be an author. Be a mother. Be important, smart, successful, nice. But the more somethings I add to my belt, I wonder if I'm getting further away from just knowing how to BE. How to be myself. 

When you're stripped of all the identity armor that you've collected, and so are the other people, and you're all dancing together naked (figuratively, but OMG can you imagine how vulnerable that extra layer would be if I meant LITERALLY??), can we be truly comfy in our own skin? No tipsy haze, no filters, no armor...just us.