Always Bring a Banana to a Dance. Always.

I dived, like a little kid into a ball pit, into the mass of duvets on my bed. Careless, I flung my purse behind me into a corner of my room. There might have been a crash and the sound of cracking glass, but I ignored it and threw my heels after the purse. Was that a cat yowling? Strange, since we don't own a cat. But whatever. I was sinking into a sleepy fog of post-dance.

There are all sorts of pain. There is the pain of closing a car door on your hand: Bad. Or the pain of singing a hymn of sorrow as I flushed my dead goldfish (creatively named Rainbow. Hey, I was like 6!) down the toilet: Bad. Or even the pain that comes when you are reading a book that reads like a dictionary of long words you don't know and weighs as much as a scaly armadillo: Bad. But their are the good kinds of pain, too. Like the pain of laughing so much your face aches at the end of the night. The blisters on your feet (covered in Buzz Lightyear band-aids) from dancing yourself senseless. Or, best of all, the pain of loving your crazy friends so much it hurts. Or maybe that pain was just when Jimmer elbowed by ribs while twirling...

So if you are a wonderful human being (or alien, Dr.Who has opened up so many possibilities ;) then you read that blog post before this one about getting ready for a dance. Well, you'll be glad to know that everything fell in line and I had an amazing time in my high but still surprisingly comfortable heels. Here is a picture my friend Stephy (her blog is http://misschiefmadness.blogspot.com/) 's Dad took of all my friends and I dressed to the nines. (Or, at least the eights.) I know its hard to look at that much beauty at once, look away from the screen if you feel faint.

Voila! Left to Right: Gab, Caity, Steph, Caleb, Laurel, Moi, Abby, Heather, Brandi.

                       No, this is not a cabaret  monkey. He is Steph's brother Caleb with his Dr.Who props.

Thanks, Mr.Steen!

The dance was held at a posh banquet hall. The tables were decorated with candy-corn centerpieces and the food was pretty good but the theme really confused me. Instead of the usual fake-flower trellis they had a photo backdrop of a lit up city. In front was a plastic potted plant and a park bench in a strip of astro-turf. Ok, but what was the theme supposed to be? The Bum I Once Loved? Maybe Once Upon a Mugging? Enchantment at the Bottom of a Brown Paper Bag? 

The room was definitely split into different people groups that occasionally mingled then reformed. There was the tightly knit crop circles of dancers. One corner was the "Tall Awkward People Who Hate Dances" designated corner. Correction, "Mostly Tall and A Lone Short Person" corner. Do super tall people have a dancing phobia I, as a medium-height person, am not aware of? Or a fear of hitting their heads on chandeliers? When it comes to dances short-to-medium people really do seem to be Fun Size. 

The rest of the people were in minority groups. There was the pacing chaparones/photogrophers, the couples that stayed at their table fondling each other all night, and that one kid who circled the dance floor looking at people's feet. Sketchy as an etch-a-sketch and almost worse than the couple prairie-skirt grinding. Almost.

So all and all, a fun night with my friends boogeying and taking cheesy pictures in the photo-booth. Before I end this blog post with the merciful click of the publish button, let me say this.

Guys: Stop being such chickens! Ask a girl to dance. It doesn't have to be romantic, you can ask a friend. If you are a true gentleman, maybe you could ask one of the awkward, shy, or maybe not so pretty girls to dance. Seeing a guy being a gentleman will melt a girl's heart more than any pick-up line or a smooth move ever will.

Dancing on Crushed Candy Corn,

-Hannah

(P.S. The post might seem slightly disjointed because my STUPID, STUPID computer erased everything and I had to re-write it. One day, laptopy, you're gonna end up being recycled into a egg-slicer. Just you wait.)