Collegiate Times

Jamie Martyn/Collegiate Times

HE SAID:

I only dance when pornography is involved.

And without context, that sounds terrible. However, I’m not the twisted pervert here — the Germans are.

During my abroad studies in 2008, I took a leisure trip to Munich with approximately 10 other students. We nominated a ringleader because of his convenient fluency in the language. In search of entertainment one evening, natives told our guide we should visit a certain all-night dance venue.

The club was massive, not unlike wandering a shelf-less Home Depot. A stepped structure for multiple levels of dancers sat in the middle of the floor. And with cheap one-liter “biers,” we inevitably broke it down until 4 a.m. Several large screens encouraged us with soft-core sex scenes possibly filmed in the 1980s. Atop that, Germans singing along to Bon Jovi’s “Livin’ on a Prayer” is horrendous.

But that was 4,000 miles ago where no one knew who I was and everyone wore lederhosen. With my pack of friends — the victims of higher alcohol content, I had little chance of looking foolish.

It’s a shame that self-image is the biggest roadblock to my going footloose. I don’t object to the idea of dancing at all; my iPod hosts a handsome amount of tunes fit for moves. But nearly all my jigs get internalized. I have an incurable suspicion that people who see me jerk my hips not-so-fluidly will pass merciless judgment on my entire character and belly laugh the next time our paths cross on campus.

The act of dancing itself isn’t where my nerves begin and end, either. Once I’m woven into the mesh of bodies for any more than one song, my body temperature shifts to that of a sauna. I sweat more than I’d like. And I’m not talking about drops that a quick brow swipe takes care of. I’m saying you saw me walk into the place wearing a cyan-blue T-shirt, and now it’s magically transformed into navy; only beach towels can absorb the torrential monsoon. The average person has 2.6 million sweat glands, and I’m convinced one of mine can’t function without the other 2,599,999.

Yet that’s what it’s all about, right? Dancing is a cathartic release. Shake off the academic stressors, the roommate grievances and, in my case, excess water and sodium. I think most females understand this very well; it’s imbedded in their biological makeup.

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A version of this article appeared in the Feb 19 issue of the Collegiate Times.