Jinked

The last time Courtney and I went dancing at Neo we did a lot of people watching midst our short dancing breaks. Sweaty and panting for breath, we’d move to a table, washed in the glow of a single candle, and just watch people on the floor twist, stomp and jump. There was one girl in particular whom we kept watching. She was a short girl with dark hair and she had on a pleather black and white skirt so short you could see the curve of her ass. We didn’t know what to make of it. This came from two girls dressed in jeans and tanktops.

This too-short-skirt girl opened conversation about self-consciousness, self-confidence and how Courtney and I really admired people who were confident enough to wear, do or say just about anything. We both agreed that sometimes things weren’t worth giving a shit about, clothes probably most of all.

We vowed that the next time we went dancing at Neo we would dress in clothes that made us a little self-conscious. It would be an experiment to test our mettle. Oh, how I longed to battle the beast of my social awkwardness, look it straight in the eye and spit in its face.

Since I was little I’ve always worried about how people saw me, so I tried my best to be as perfect as possible. I didn’t want people to think the wrong thing or perceive me as something I wasn’t. I hated first impressions.

I’ve gotten better over time though. The older I get, the more I don’t care… about certain things. I don’t mind dressing eccentrically, in crazy colorful skirts or flowered, flowing tops that my friend Marisol hates. I don’t mind standing on chairs in public and dancing to a beat no one can hear. I don’t mind sitting on the sidewalk in the middle of town, watching traffic roll by and writing in a battered notebook. I live life as much as I can. I do what makes me happy.

What I do mind though is showing skin. I don’t even like wearing bathing suits. I don’t want to be called a slut.

It’s so laughable. I give people power when I bend to their beliefs in me. I have to be confident in who I am, what I am. Clothes on their own don’t define a person. You have to look and hear and smell and taste and feel the whole picture to really see.

Courtney and I had so much fun last night, and the kicker was that no one really cared how we were dressed. Everyone was just there to dance, not to gawk or pick up. Even the trek the few blocks from the car to the club itself wasn’t bad. I cared more about how I was dressed than the general public, which I think is pretty sad. People on the street didn’t care I was showing off my pasty-white midriff. They didn’t notice.

All they saw were two girls going to a goth-style club to have a good time dancing.

I don’t plan on wearing that outfit ever again, but I’m still deeming the experiment a success. There are better things to give a shit about in my life. Clothes are just clothes and on the dance floor it doesn’t matter what is covering me up. As long as I move and smile and drink plenty of water, nothing else matters.

Self-consciousness, I win this time.