My mom: "... She doesn't. She just made that all up as she went along."
There have been many cases throughout my life in which my mom has had to talk to "authority" figures and hold back laughter as they took my behavior way too seriously.
When I was 8 years old I was in a girl scout troop and we had a talent show. At this time, I just so happened to be obsessed with the song "True to Your Heart" by 98 Degrees and Stevie Wonder. Yes, the same powerful anthem from Mulan.
So naturally, I was planning on performing a dance routine for the talent show. However, the "routine" aspect of it all was pretty loose; pretty loose in the sense that it didn't exist. For both the rehearsal and show, I improved my dance and pretended I was in my bedroom at home just feeling the music. I don't remember the exact moves but I do know there was lots of leaping. Heaps of leaps!
After the show my mom told me how my troop leaders and everyone else thought I actually practiced and took lessons. And sure enough, I loved that I fooled them. They were all adults and I was just messing around, how could I not be impressed with myself?
I guess that's where my addiction started.
This past St. Patrick's Day I went into Philly with Brian and my friends to celebrate the magnificent people of Ireland and dear St. Patrick ;] We went to a couple of bars and ended up at The New Deck Tavern in University City. This place felt like home. First off, it was run by a bunch of Irishmen. Secondly, it was serving awesomely festive beer bottles, and then it had a dance floor outback! Jackpot.
By this point of the day, we were all feeling good. A couple of beers and a very strong Irish Car Bomb were making their presence known. Liquid courage at it's prime.
The dancing ensued and 8 year old Bridget was back in her element. Flogging Molly started echoing through the tent and everyone was feeling happy-go-lucky. So of course I started Irish dancing.
I don't know how to Irish dance. I mean, I had learned a couple steps from my eldest sister years ago (possibly when I actually was 8 years old) but I only remember one. Let me say that again... I know only one dance step that is actually legitimate.
However, it is easy to convince a bunch of drunk twenty-somethings that you know what you're doing when you're confident and have curly hair and freckles. The latter is clearly specific to Irish dancing, but hey, curly hair and freckles can be pretty persuasive for other things too, I'm sure.
So now I'm "Irish" dancing in an actual Irish bar in Philly and by some stroke of luck have not been called out by anyone.
I start to gather attention, in addition to the attention I already have from my earlier dance battles with strangers that happened to be some of the most fun I have ever had. And then people start to dance with me... oh the amusement I had in that moment was palpable.
By the end of the song I had about 3 other people I was teaching to Irish dance. But really, I was teaching them the movements I made up to go with the music. But let's remember, I'm thorough. So all the moves were based around the single dance step I knew. I'd begin with that and then move into a bunch of fast steps that would be too hard to follow and then come back to the original step and teach them that.
I should have been wearing my t-shirt which reads, "Blarney: Irish for bullshit."
Then the music changed.
The night changed too. Now it is last Wednesday night at Brownies in Ardmore. A bar that I always heard my older siblings talk about and always wanted to visit.
My first night there proved worth all the anticipation.
I had just gotten off a 8 hour shift at the library and hopped across Darby road to see my friends for a drink. This was one of the the warm nights with cool rain, lovely. I was wearing a dress and thought I'd stay for a drink or two at most and head home since I had a 6 am shift Thursday morning. Oh how naive I was.
I was in a bad mood so one drink turned into many and I was loosening up and laughing with old friends. Cool.
Then they had the brilliant idea to go out to a bar. I'm a homebody. I like house parties and drinking at home way more than going out to bars and clubs. I like comfortability. Sometimes I'm a bummer with my friends who enjoy going out. But I guess it's good that we balance one another sometimes.
I'm all for the balancing now, but as it's happening I'm usually pretty anti.
Welp, they convinced me to go along with them.
We get to the bar and there is a live band there and my friends and I socialize like crazy, making friends all over the place. And as a taken lady, I love to play wing-girl. =]
So once we've made enough connections, Shannon, Sam, and I start dancing. Eventually they make room and we get others involved.
Sidenote: I'm pretty sure there were only guys at this place. I don't remember seeing any girls and as much as I'm close friends with mostly guys in sober life, Drunk Bridget is best friends with girls.
I started doing my go to moves: ya know, the Matrix Bend and all that. Shannon and Sam were doing their thing as well. Unfortunately, my Matrix Bend and a soaked floor are not a good match and I fall... in my dress.
I remember thinking, "This should be embarrassing." But what I remember doing? I continued to dance on my knees in the middle of the dance floor.
Deb said that people at the bar were saying, "Hey look at those girls! That's awesome." and in her words, "Yea, those are my friends."
Awesome/Humiliating in retrospect? It's debatable. But part of the reason my friends convinced me to go out was because they said these were the nights for memories. And sure enough, I got myself a memory.
I also got myself two hours late for work Thursday morning. But I won't recall that in twenty years, right?
