Party on moif!

Last night I went to a party.

I'll repeat that for full effect.

Last night, I went to a party, at my work, and I dressed in a shirt, a slim shirt and with a hint of the suave about me. I managed to comport myself with some sense of occaision, and I even danced to applause from the girls and something akin to admiration from some of the guys (I'm guessing they thought I had two left feet perhaps?). Since I'd already been to the gym first, I took a taxi so as not to arrive in a muck sweat after having showered and annointed myself with something that smelled socially acceptable. I don't actually know if it was male or female, it was something with no alcohol in it that Mette had in the bathroom, so I'm guessing I smelled slightly feminine. I guess I shall have to find a more appropriate scent for any future social events, something masculine that sweeps people off their feet and has women swooing at my mere approach.

Fortunately my confidence is high having lost so much weight and last night I stepped onto the 'dance floor' with the steely eyed determination of a man with something to prove to himself, and although ten years of sitting in front of my computer, developing a backside capable of withstanding earthquakes has left me slightly off balanced, I was more or less able to include my sudden lurches to one side into my erratic dance routine. I realised after two dances that what I really need to do is go to some kind of dance class. The gym, cycling and dieting is all well and good, but nothing leaves you gasping for breath like two numbers on the dance floor. My knee's were ready for industrial action after the first ten minutes, but I suppressed their complaints and took a turn in the cool air with the smokers to cool down again.

The biggest problem with the evening was the divergence of music tastes. My boss, who dances like he believes in it, is a great fan of vapid pop music, where as my colleague Garn prefers Death Metal and Gangsta Hip Hop. I can dance to almost anything I think, but its hard when the music keeps getting hijacked. One song I did enjoy despite other people's complaints (one girl actually took to shouting "No!" when it began) was the above video by a Danish band called Nephew. It reminds me of Depeche Mode, which is always good in my mind. Poor Goeg was sick so he missed out on a good evening.

It helped to know most of the people, by sight if not by name. I was able to converse and the clammy hand of teen angst which once strangled my voice when speaking Danish in public has passed almost into memory. The irony of it though. Especially ironic is the comfortable indifference afforded by years of a steady relationship. Liberation through indifference you might say. When it mattered, I couldn't speak to a girl to save my life. Now, it doesn't matter and I find I have little to say anyway. I'd rather just dance.