Disco, Rapture, Etc.

originally published by Limeaid (now defunct)

I might have a bit of a control issue. I’m an overthinker. I carefully cultivate so much of my life, from my appearance to the way I present myself to other people, everything is carefully cultivated. I say something mildly off-color and then I dwell on it for hours. I refuse to let myself go out until all of my work is completely finished. But I’ve been learning to have fun. I’m really trying! 

 

And then, I managed to stumble upon disco. Something about it tasted like liberation. It was Grace, dancing. Friends, dancing. Grace with friends, dancing. And for a couple of hours, that was the only solid thought I could muster. It was beautiful.

 

I don’t know exactly what it is about disco. I’m like, 18, first of all. My mother was too young during the real disco years to participate. We’re Italian-American, so I can’t even say it’s my heritage. John Travolta certainly isn’t enough to speak for the rest of us. The only tangible connection I have to the disco era is my thick, unruly hair.

 

So, not much.

 

I went to a disco night a couple of weeks ago. It was at a well-known local concert venue, so I can’t even justify saying that it was a fully immersive experience. One of my friends found out about it, probably through a mailer list, and we all needed Friday night plans. It was nothing poetic. We somehow managed to dress the part. Or, at least, I did my best to, arming myself in a friend’s velvet blouse and struggling getting my stockings and heeled booties on. It was a time.

 

I’ve never been a dancer. I love parties, and I love clubs, but I have the natural dance moves of a 54-year-old white dad who probably drives a 2008 Honda Odyssey. Somehow, though, the moment the first song came on -- the Bee Gees -- all of that self-doubt slithered out of my destructive psyche. That’s not to say that miraculously I learned how to dance, because that’d be a fucking miracle. My dancing didn’t change. The fact of the matter was, I just didn’t care.

 

Most of my life is micromanaged. I wake up at a certain time. I need to walk out the door by 7:23 or my heart starts to palpitate. I do my work in a certain order, go to bed at a certain time on weeknights, get dressed in the same order every single morning. Lists on my phone of where to go each day, when to eat, how to study.

 

I still wonder exactly what shattered within me. I was delicately pushed out of my own body and there I was, myself as a core, myself as a spirit. I existed and I mattered and I was alive and I danced on a table and I laughed until my throat grew sore. I was disgusting, my hair dripping with sweat and my eyeliner pooled under my eyes, but I was alive. It could have been the endorphins bursting within me after hours of gratuitous exercise, sure, or it could have been a message from the divine. Maybe it was just ABBA. 

 

And then, by two in the morning it was all over. I vacated the Lyft and my feet groaned in agony. The makeup was washed off. I sat in baggy grandma pajamas, all glory restored back to the original disco gods, regular old Grace.

 

But I smiled. I could breathe a little easier.

 

When I need a skip in my step, now, I put on a little Diana Ross. The spiked beat pulls my mouth into a smile. My friends and I had a night-in a couple weeks ago and soon enough, you guessed it, the disco playlist was switched on, and in Nike shorts and my mom’s old tank top, I twirled on the dance floor. Well, the space of my dorm room between the Subway-filled trash can and my friends sprawled on the floor. I flipped my hair and shook my ass and I know I looked like an idiot, but that was okay.

 

As someone who skews a little compulsive, I understand the difficulty that lies in loosening your grip for even a moment. Disco makes it easy -- and better yet, it’s harmless. There’s really no harm done. If you get anything out of this piece, it’s that if you’re anything like me, high strung, thin-skinned or perpetually nervous, disco might do you a bit of good. 

 

Donna Summer played, and I was.