When I was 16, you could give any of my friends a few drinks and oserve the Justin Beiber phenomenon; skinny, middle class white girls under the illusion they’re black rappers. This is why after a few shots, the dance floor will fill up with girls swaggering, twerking and flipping their hands around like they’ve just touched a hot iron.
I was one of these girls. My dancing looks like a giraffe having an epileptic fit. But because self awareness and drunkenness are inversely proportional, that never bothered me at the time.
But perhaps God decided he’d had enough of teenage girls. (I understand that feeling. I, at 19, am now thoroughly disgusted with decadence and frivolity of such youths. Wasn’t like that in my day….) Anyway, there was one evening when all of my girls turned up at a blokes house. He was a thoroughly underwhelming guy, made attractive by the ownership of a house without parents home.
Up we turned. We started to drink something sugary and pink – because that was sophisticated, darling – and dance.
Now earlier that day, I decided that if I were to name my boobs, they would be christened ‘Disappointing.’ So I adopted the full proof plan of stuffing them with cotton wool (tissue left conspicuous crinkle marks. Rookie mistake.) After my DIY boob job, I felt much better. So full of confidence that I danced with even more than my usual enthusiasm.
That was until my friend pointed out I’d lost a boob. In my spirited throwing-my-hands-in -the-air -like-i’m-drowning move my bra had hoiked up. And out had come my C cup filling.
I swore that day that I was never gonna dance again. And if someone asked, it was because these guilty feet had got no rythm. As opposed to because I’d lost a boob on the dancefloor, ironically, dancing to “my milkshakes bring all the boys to the yard.”