She's a Super Freak

I have a confession to make.

In all of my thirty-five years on this planet, I have yet to get my freak on.

There was a time back when The Butterfly dance move was prevalent that I attempted to get my freak going, but I failed after pulling a back muscle. Instead, I ended up horizontal on the dance floor for about five minutes before friends found me withering in pain among cigarette butts and used glow sticks.

Since that incident I have foregone my pursuit of freak cred and simply led a life filled with the simplicity of the “White Man Overbite” and the occasional drunken Cabbage Patch at weddings (although I will admit to once being wasted enough to do the Worm which resulted in a dislocated shoulder and full body bruising).



Having made peace with the fact that I am dull on the dance floor and have the moves of a ninety-four year old paraplegic, I tend to keep myself limited to about two feet of space in the corner where I can embarrass myself quietly. This game plan has worked for countless gatherings, and I assumed it would continue for the remaining portion of my event-attending life.

I was wrong.

At a recent Bat Mitzvah for my cousin-to-be, I was treated to what I can only describe as “The Clump.” This consists of many people occupying the same exact space while bumping and grinding on each other's person until those viewing the scene become very uncomfortable and leave the room. If you happen to be the one adult unknowingly remaining on the dance floor because you have your eyes closed, swaying hypnotically to Chris Brown's “Forever” and imagining yourself back at Club Some in Houston, Texas circa 1997, then it is doubly uncomfortable – especially when you open your eyes and find yourself surrounded by teenagers, and that everyone not involved in the group dry humping is starring at you like a pervert.

Finding myself unwittingly in the middle of “The Clump” and pressed against a twelve year old boy that I could've theoretically given birth to, I had only one crystal clear thought racing through my mind: This is going to end badly for me.

I am not sure of the social niceties involved in extricating yourself from a situation bordering on statutory rape, but apparently trying to hop your way out of a hormone frenzied group of teens is not it. In fact, doing so causes friction between yourself and the buttocks of an eleven year old boy that will soon be related to you and will cause a level of nausea that one should only experience after a round of chemotherapy. And trying to graciously smile your way out of this experience? It will inevitably lend credence to belief that you are creepy.

Within the chaos of my party faux pas I tried desperately to catch the eye of my beloved. After all, if there was one person who could save me from this horror it would be the man who wanted to marry me. But alas, as our eyes met, it was clear that he was beyond helping. Starring at me with a glassy, bug-eye look, the realization that the pedestal of high esteem he placed me on was slowly teetering, I mouthed the words, Help Me all to no avail. He was slipping into his happy place mentally where the sight of his fiancée grinding his God child didn't exist and to be quite honest, I wanted to be there too.

Unfortunately, sitting to his left was his parents and sister whose open mouth gasping did nothing to quiet my nerves. I tried to get past their expressions of shock and disgust by connecting with them telepathically, explaining through brain waves that I was not interested in children in That Way . It was just as I was boring my message into their skulls that “The Clump” began to move closer to my in-laws-to-be and at the exact moment that I could sense an understanding between they and I, I felt the hard slap on my rump and the cracking voice of a young boy yelling, “That's right, I hit it.”

At that point I knew I was beat.

Stuck inside this withering mass, I gave up any pretense of escape and instead retreated to my own happy place where I was back in Junior High dancing at least twelve inches from another human being.

Back then it was virtually unthinkable to push your backside into the nether region of your partner. Okay, it was thinkable, but no one would've dared to do it lest they be considered a skank and forever marked as an undesirable. There were rules to Junior High and one only pushed them so far. Sure we may have grooved on Def Leopard's “Pour Some Sugar on Me,” occasionally getting closer than six inches from one another, but then some eagle-eyed P.E. teacher would spot your obscene behavior and drag you off the dance floor to scold you. Instead we jumped up and down and sang loudly to songs filled with double meanings and vague sexual references that we didn't understand. It was an innocent time and one I missed.

More so, now that I was participating in behavior that would've gotten me not only expelled from school, but would've required intensive psychotherapy and quite possibly hospitalization.

But back to realty.

When the emcee announced the last dance, “The Clump” thankfully dispersed and I made my way back to the table where my horrified family-to-be refused to make eye contact with me. I gathered up my purse and jacket and asked my significant other if he was ready to leave. It seemed only right that I slink out of the party in humiliation and lessen the effect of my perversion on the rest of the party goers.

As I started to make my way to the door I was stopped by my soon-to-be cousin and given a huge hug.

“Thanks Ebeth, I had so much fun dancing with you.” she said.

“No problem.” I answered.

“You know, none of the family ever dances at these things. You're kinda cool.” she added before disappearing back into her group of Ho's.

I left the party in better spirits and feeling that I may have made a crucial step in transitioning into my new life as a wife and in-law. To some I may have acted inappropriately and involved myself legally in the corruption of several minors, but in the end I made not only an ass of myself but also a friend.

And, judging by the appreciative looks from a couple of the fourteen year olds, I made some admirers, as well.