Don't get me wrong -- I love a good dance party. I like rocking out with my girls to jams like Ashlee Simpson's "L.O.V.E.," faking a B-side swing dance with a gentleman friend or two and going home with tired feet to the E.B.A's delivery man and my ravenous roommate. I like showing off my white-girl moves, including the shopping cart, the lawn mower and yes, the killer of killer moves, the noncommittal shimmy-shuffle.
But you know what kills me? The boys I don't know -- and I never realize how many people I don't know at Dartmouth until a dance party arises -- grinding up against me. Now, I say this with no arrogance: By no means do I think I am, as the experts say, "hot shit." I'm a junior girl, and if that doesn't speak volumes enough, I'm also all of five foot two. And yet it's incredible how often I feel the need to be wearing a habit and a leper's bell every time I cut the rug.
You think I'm lying? Several weekends ago, I entered a certain establishment known for its decent basement scene, and on occasion, rickety poles designed for shaking your booty. I was not dressed provocatively; indeed some might argue I wasn't even dressed appropriately: I was wearing a long-sleeved black sweater, and the only skin showing was my hands, my face and a bit of my neck. Still, out they came like velociraptors. I saw one incoming, awkwardly swaying youth immediately in front of me and dodged quickly. I mercilessly dragged a friend in front of me, and pushed her into the arms of one of our guy bodyguards. This, incidentally, is evasive maneuver number one: make sure you make platonic male friends who you can brainwash into liking dance parties, Audrey Hepburn movies, and lifting heavy furniture. I guarantee it'll change your life.
But back on the dance floor, what I wasn't prepared for were the two who slid in from the sides, raising eyebrows and thrusting what God gave them and Elvis made them aware of.
So here's where you employ evasive maneuver two: sneeze loudly, juicily and in his direction. Alternatively, you can try a hacking attack, which is potentially easier to fake but involves much more energy, and, like underwater torpedoes, or cannonballs, is impossible to use multiple times back-to-back.
But this is all the rookie stuff. If you haven't learned this by the end of your third term at Dartmouth, you probably never will. Boy, do I pity you. But let's say you've mastered all this. What do you do when things get rougher? How do you deal with the ever-present danger of the "Attack from the Back?"
You ladies know what I'm talking about: you're dancing in a cluster of friends, shuffling and laughing and hoping no one notices that it should be illegal for you to be dancing in public in the first place, when all of a sudden you feel someone breathing down your neck. The backs of your legs are being pressed against stiff unwashed denim, and suddenly two phantom hands latch on to your hip bones. The first thought is terror, of course, followed quickly by the inevitable curiosity. Who has taken it upon himself to invade your personal space?
First inspect the hands. Any tell-tale moles, perhaps, or pinky signet rings? Maybe a "Livestrong" bracelet or a Phi Delt-esque hemp creation? Calluses, maybe, that denote a rower? Then crane your neck a bit, making sure it doesn't seem like you're trying to make out with him but merely make out his face. If you're still not sure, you can turn to a girlfriend, preferably one who knows a lot of people but is nonetheless discrete. With as much tact as possible, mouth to her, "Who the hell is behind me?" Then she can give you the down low, or if she doesn't know, shrug her shoulders as she twists and shouts. The follow-up question, of course, is merely a thumbs-up, thumbs-down. If you get neither the fellow's name, nor an affirmation of his attractiveness, immediately start your disengagement plan.
The most straightforward method is to pull forward, grasping his hands and twisting yourself around to face him. If for some odd reason you like what you see, you can do a little hand shimmy and try to take the dancing from down-and-dirty to do-si-do. If you are displeased by the unveiling, simply drop his hands, smile and say, or rather scream so he can hear over the Kanye-induced din, "SORRY I HAVE TO GO PEE!" and scamper off. With any luck, when you return he will have found another hapless victim.
Dance parties don't have to be a treacherous pit of unknown male musk. Keep your wits about you, carry pepper spray, and above all don't make eye contact, and you, too, can make it through the fraternity dance party in one piece.
Amy is a staff writer for The Mirror. On weekends she accessorizes with heels and mace.
