I danced on a bar.
I! Danced! On! A bar! All Coyote Ugly-style...minus the leering men and stripper moves.
I danced! Lots! Well! Like a rock star! And I didn't fall off the bar like I feared I would. (That's the whole key here, people.)
In celebration of my liberation from this damn court case and the fact that I can move on with my life, I attended a benefit to help fund the Vagina Monologues at my school. The place was smokey, loud and packed with gorgeous women who all also supported this incredible play. The music was fabulous ad the atmosphere was decadent and festive. Before long, squealing girls were climbing onto the bar to groove to the music.
I envied them. They all looked so happy and beautiful and stable (that is key--some of them had four-inch heels on). I wanted to be one of them. Why couldn't I be one of them? If I was one of them, would I fall? Would it matter if I fell--was that risk worth not even trying? What was stopping me from climbing onto the bar and rocking out? When would I get a chance to squeal and dance and celebrate woman-hood by dancing on a shiny chrome bar?
And so I scrambled onto a barstool and climbed onto the smooth, shiny bar with half a dozen other girls. We all cheered and high-fived one another as we danced to hip-hop and 90s classics.
I looked down a few times and thought that it would suck if I fell. Then I took a deep breath, listened to the music and just danced. Around me girls "woo"d and grooved. People packed the dance floor below me, dancing and cheering on those on the bar. All the stress and troubles in my life disappeared in a haze and all that was left was me, a liberated girl, celebrating her rebirth by doing something she'd always been afraid to do.