I stick the squeezebox on random…and it plays a song. And even when it’s not right – not right for the era I’m transported back to that period where, for a hot minute I was a DJ at university.
I went from hiding in my room at parties, being the “DJ” and playing tracks to keep everyone moving to being in the box in the only student run social center off campus.
I hopped from track to track following a gut instinct of what would make people dance. Sometimes it worked, sometimes it didn’t.
Then I’d hand over the decks to Richard – way more experienced, way more professional, way more skilled. And I’d go out onto that dance floor.
I’d feel the press of hot bodies, the smell of drink in the clammy hot air, the sweat literally streaming down the walls of the building.
And for an hour or two, with the benefit of some alcohol – often quite a lot of alcohol – I could wash away the body I hated. I could feel the music coursing through me (pretty much literally, Rich was an epic engineer and it was LOUD).
I could feel my long hair brushing my neck, I could dance with my friends and forget who society kept telling me I was. I would scream along with the female leads with my voice cracking and breaking as they tore from me.
I would dance my fucking soul out.
And music can take me back to that moment. But it’s better… no — it’s fucking phenomenal now because I can enjoy my body. I don’t have to run. I don’t need the alcohol to forget. I can fucking be me, and throw myself around the (kitchen) dancefloor and it’s fucking epic.