Experiment: Monopolizing the Social Scene

/live/

Photography: Idam Adam

Photography: Idam Adam

This past week I both experienced and practiced life as a social entity. Someone who leaves their house on purpose, and not just to stumble home with three shopping bags worth of 2-minute noodles, while trying desperately to control their palpitating heart which is bitchily complaining from all of the movement. I brushed my hair, smoothed on my lip gloss, wriggled into a tight dress and stepped out into the world of partying and staying up late without reruns of Monk to keep me entertained.

I’m a hermit- I’ll admit it up front. I’m apathetic towards my friendships most of the time and on a scale of one to ten I’m about 12 points too lazy to put on my ‘I’m so excited to be here’ face, let alone leave my bed for anything more than another cup of tea. Given that the past week has been one of a seriously celebratory nature, I decided I would give the whole ‘being a normal person and leaving the house’ thing a non-discriminatory shot. 

"While I thoroughly appreciated my week as a member of the ‘I feel like putting on pants’ community, I was just as delighted to be back under the covers..."

I exposed something about myself which I find quite discomforting- I actually relish being around other people. I even went as far as forfeiting $10 to get into a club, where there were sticky, rowdy specimens surrounding me in a suffocating circle of alcohol, dreams of sexual conquest and fake tan- and I didn’t mind it. I danced with friends, with strangers, by myself. I felt confident. I had alcohol slopped on my dress and my toes trampled by insufferable, towering stilettos. I had lurid bangers pounded into my eardrums until 3am, and a ceaseless ringing vibrating through my head thereafter. I watched countless partyers drink themselves past the point of inebriation and into an unconscious abyss. I saw beer-fuelled, self-inflated, chauvinist males take heat with the security and get thrown out on their discourteous asses for it. 

The club was everything I expected it to be, but I didn’t expect to find the set up empowering. I was able to let go, with the knowledge that every single person who saw me was so blotto they wouldn’t remember their own name in the morning, let alone what I look like losing myself in an effervescent juicy wiggle.

On the lighter side of the social spectrum, I also had the pleasure of attending an undisturbed, friendly gathering with a bonfire and laser lights included. I drank a few Midori mixers, enough to feel the pull of inhibition. I had boobs flashed at me in close quarters, and took part in semi-drunken babbling about the philosophy of life. I got closer to people I haven’t been close with since my childhood, and it felt incredible. It was comforting to know ten years hadn’t changed us to the point where we can’t just pick up where we left off. I watched my leg hairs disintegrate with the tickle of the blaze, and felt my heart skip a beat every time someone staggered a little bit too close to the flames. Declarations of love, pride, sadness and fear lingered in the smoke filling our lungs and the air keeping us cool. It was blissful, energetic, tranquil and coaxing all at the same time.

While I thoroughly appreciated my week as a member of the ‘I feel like putting on pants’ community, I was just as delighted to be back under the covers, with no make-up, unconfined PJ’s, messy hair and a nice hot cup of tea. Maybe I’ll make a habit of going out, maybe I won’t. One thing is for sure though, I never knew I was such an avid, whoop-ass dancer.