Vanilla Ice Asked Me To Dance (and I said No)

A list of things I hate:

1. Mean people

2. Squealing tires

3. Lipstick (you do you, I mean for me)

4. “I’m Like a Bird” by Nelly Furtado (I just can’t)

5. Night clubs

I am a lot of things, but I have never been, nor shall I ever be, a party girl. You will never catch me on a dance floor in a bandage dress and high heels; in fact, if you ever see me in high heels (which, to me, is anything non-chunky over one inch) I’ll give you $100.

How and why I ended up at the Dragonfly Nightclub in Niagara Falls (circa 2013) doesn’t matter — what does matter is that Vanilla Ice was there, he asked me to dance, and I crossed my arms and went to pout in the corner. (To be fair, what he actually said was ‘Ladies! Get up on this dance floor!’)

I am very confident in my own skin. But when my skin is put in a place where it doesn’t belong, I want to disappear. I was well beyond my comfort zone before we even crossed the threshold, passing gorgeous women in pushup bras and lipstick who were lined up down the street, taking turns flirting with the bouncers while we slipped through the door because our friend ‘knew a guy.’

Here is what doesn’t make sense to me:

• a room that is dark but also splashed with moving lights that are supposed to make everything sexier

• music so loud I can feel it in my belly to the point of nausea — so loud no one can hear me ask, “Can we go now?”

• a celebrity guest bartender who doesn’t even perform except to sing along to his own song as women scream

• men who have their dress shirts open almost to their belly buttons

• a place that would kick out our friend for wearing a ball cap while also celebrating Mr. Ice Ice Baby who was wearing (gasp!) a ball cap

I turned into wallpaper and shrunk myself until I was little more than a shadow, tucked back near the entrance to the VIP area where there was hardly enough light for any of the glowing humans to make eye contact with me.

All right stop
Collaborate and listen
Ice is back with a brand new invention

It’s not that I held any judgment against the throbbing mob of starry-eyed dancers, it’s just that they weren’t my people. I knew it. And I knew they knew it too.

One joy-filled beauty stumbled against me. She giggled and said sorry and then she looked at me. “Oh, oh, are you okay?”

I died. But I couldn’t even go and flush myself down the toilet because 1. I didn’t know where the bathroom was and 2. I was sure there would be an attendant in there and I didn’t know the tipping etiquette — plus my husband had the cash in his pocket and he was on the dance floor having the time of his life.

Something grabs a hold of me tightly
Flow like a harpoon daily and nightly
Will it ever stop?
Yo, I don't know
Turn off the lights and I'll glow

And everyone else really was glowing and I wasn’t, even though I was used to glowing and I hated Vanilla Ice for trying to pressure me off the wall.

Love it or leave it
You better gangway
You better hit bull's eye
The kid don't play

Here is a list of songs that express how I felt in that moment:

• “I’ll Fly Away” (gospel chorus)

• “All Along the Watchtower” (Bob Dylan)

• “Everybody Hurts” (R.E.M)

• “Creep” (Radiohead)

• “I Want to Get Away” (Lenny Kravitz)

• “Nothing is Real” (Vanilla Ice)

If there was a problem
Yo, I'll solve it
Check out the hook while my DJ revolves it

And the resolution is this: I do not go where I don’t belong.

And here’s the kicker: if a Vanilla Ice song comes on while I’m in the kitchen, you can bet I’ll be dancing. Why? Because I feel safe there, because music is actually music when you let it embrace you rather than overpower you, because I know his real name is Robert Van Winkle and it’s impossible to be mad at someone named “Winkle,” and because I know the bathroom etiquette in my own home.

The dance club scene is a culture I do not belong to. If you like it, that’s great. I love that for you. Me? I want an intimate concert with an acoustic guitar and a djembe; I want a piano bar; I want a strange dramatic arts presentation where a man hops off the stage, rushes to my chair, puts the wide end of a funnel against my ear and whispers into the small end, “this is the most intimate moment you and I will ever experience” (true story); I want hippies and sunshine and beaches and drive-in theatres; I want the silent peace of my office and the silent piece of rock my son brought me from Italy. I want stories. I want singing in the shower. I want sleepovers in my vintage van and Leonard Cohen vinyl spinning on my record player.

Where am I going with this? I’m not really sure, this kind of got away from me… but I guess it boils down to one thing: Chicken House Press does not have dance club vibes. This is a gentle space I have built to welcome your stories, and if that’s your vibe, we could have a lot of fun working together.

Take heed, 'cause I'm a lyrical poet
[CHP's] on the scene just in case you didn't know it

💛

Talk soon!