what u gon’ do with all that ass? all that ass inside them jeans?

It’s midnight and I am at a club of sorts with my husband, my brother, and a half dozen friends leftover from a birthday party. This is our third establishment of the evening; dinner at a local Mexican restaurant, birthday cake and presents at the local favorite of the twentysomething set, then finally to this place called BJs where an old friend is DJing and the music is so loud that several of us openly roll our eyes and wince. After about a half hour the temporary hearing damage sets in and it’s all good, though.

It would be hard to imagine a scene my brother has less investment in: he doesn’t drink, smoke, date (he has a long distance girlfriend), stagger around, or grind on women at random. He also doesn’t listen to Top 40 hip hop or club music but somehow, like me, recognizes about half the songs the DJ plays. When he hears me complain he tells me that awful Black Eyed Peas song is at least partial parody. He’s seen the video, not me – so he could be right. Personally, I think he’s too trusting and optimistic. It is sweet though that both my brother and husband, while completely out of their element, are still here with me and (I hope) enjoying themselves and letting me do the drinking, smoking, and grinding.

There are so many good-looking girls here. There are big ones, small ones, skinny ones, curvy ones. There are wholesome-looking ones and skanky ones and a girl wearing a jean skirt so short and snug and showing so much leg it’s a type of well-balanced perfection. I am not used to these kind of girls. In PT what little singles scene we have is dominated by sexy ladies that are earthier and darker in some way but rough around the edges – “like they’ve seen one too many mornings at the Marina,” I quip to Ralph, who laughs because he knows what I’m talking about. But the girls aren’t the only thing; I can’t believe how different the club scene is here than Port Townsend. I guess you can’t call most of Hoquiam / Aberdeen’s dancing establishments “clubs” – they are mostly taverns and have been most of their lives – going through various stages of skanky / scariness and at best securing clean restrooms and good bar food. The music is always loud and Top 40 with occasional mid-90s throwbacks that I am ashamed to admit I dance to.

My brother and I see a man way across the dancefloor and we turn to one another. “We went to school with him, right? What’s his name, do you remember?” We look back out across the floor and he catches our eye and – to the beat, – spells out his name to us in sign language! “C” – “A” – “R” – “L” – “O” – “S”! I am tickled. Then he starts spelling my brother’s name and finally joins us. Later on the way to the restroom I run into a girl I was on the swim team with. I am friendly; I smile. I haven’t seen many of these people in years. They ask me what I’m up to. “It’s my anniversary. 5 years. We have two kids – 4 and 2!” That about sums it up; no one needs to ask more.

I have fun dancing. Yes, I do the robot, and later my husband tells me, “It looks like a few bolts were loose!” I am having a good time. I have a couple cigarettes. I dance with girlfriends that I’ve danced with since we were pre-teen and pre-boobs and pre-boys. I dance with my husband and I sit next to my brother when I don’t feel like dancing. My only concern is that someone we went to high school will think my brother and I are dating. I think we get that alot. Especially when he puts his arm around me.

We leave a little after 1 AM and go home to our own space; kids asleep with my parents. Sleeping in tomorrow; no little footsteps or diapers to change or breakfast to arrange. Nice.

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