I remember being 5 or 6, 7 even, going to my great aunt's 70th birthday party. Or being 5 or 6 and going to my mom's aunt and uncle's 50th anniversary party. Or being 4 or 5 and going to my mom's cousin's daughter's quinceañera. They were always in these places that were out in the middle of nowhere. They looked like crackhouses from the outside but were perfect for dancing your ass off inside. There was always a huge dance floor with tables off to either side, a kitchen that served as a bar for most of the night then a
menudo bar for a couple hours after everyone was good and drunk.
I remember getting hugs and kisses from people I couldn't remember ever meeting. I remember sitting next to my mom with a cup of 7up and a side of cherries. I remember dunking a cherry in, sucking all the taste of the soda off of it, then dunking it back in to do it over again. I remember being entertained with that for a good hour.
I remember going to the bathroom that was always too small with awful florescent lighting, and seeing just how frazzled I looked after dancing for a few hours, watching my mom fix her lipstick, watching other women do the same. I remember dancing with my parents, each with one arm around me, carrying me in between them and the other holding each other's hand.
I remember the smokers going outside every hour or so, all men, and the only woman who would ever join them was the loudest, rudest, gaudiest great aunt, and though even the die hard smokers never once lit up inside, the place always had a haze of smoke. I remember watching my aunt come back from the dance floor and immediately sitting down and fanning herself with a napkin, wishing I could dance enough that I would have to go in search of my own napkin-fan. I remember smelling beer on the breath of those that would lean in to yell something in my ear, over the noise of whatever band or song the DJ might be playing.
I remember dancing until I threw up.
I remember, I was never bored. Tired, yes, frustrated that I wasn't the absolute center of attention, of course, but never bored.
I haven't been to one of those kinds of functions in at least eight years. The great aunt's pass away, the couples do too, money can't be spent on just any party, nobody has the energy to drive out to the middle of nowhere anymore, you run out of shit to celebrate.
Somewhere in there, I lost that childish sense of fun. I stay in whenever possible cuz, god, people suck. I only dance in the dark. Fun now, is smoking a cigarette (or a joint, as the case may be) on the front lawn while staring up at the moon. Fun now, is stealing a beer from the fridge and sipping at it while watching some old-as-dirt show that I never liked, but it's mildly amusing and it's something to do. Fun now, is going to a rock show, and even that has gone from pushing and shoving and getting in the crowd, screaming with the guy next to me, to standing back and really listening to the music, occasionally throwing up a hand sign or two, screaming only when each song ends, in the last few years. I used to do the chicken dance, not caring how much of an idiot I made out of myself, now I point and rant about the people who sway enthusiastically, too drunk to care who's watching.
It seems impossible to believe that in the last ten years, I've changed this much. Because, yes, it's ten years, but it's
only ten years. I'm still a child for Christ's sake.
I seems for one, unfathomable, and two completely fucking terrifying, that in a little over 4 months I will be legally considered an adult.
Somewhere in me, there is that child's sense of fun. The dirt floors of some of the venues are vaguely reminiscent of the concrete dance floors in the rundown buildings that were spotted and dirty and could break a bone in three places if you fell on it. The bass lines vibrating in my chest feel like the beat of that one
Kumbia Kings song they always played, that I knew all the words to but never bothered to learn the name, that I could feel down to the tips of my fingers. The lights shining on the bands are similar to ones I'd watch and make myself dizzy tracing their patterns as they flashed and wove over the dancers.
I may be taller than I was, I may wear makeup, contacts, I may have the faintest trace of laugh lines, but I'm still a fucking child.
Somewhere in me there is still a 5 year old who just wants to go out onto the dance floor, and dance until she throws up.