MonkeyPants

I Don’t Think You’re Ready For This Jelly.

So, Sunday night, I go to grab E at The Fringe and head on home for some quiet before the weekday starts. People are idly chatting and watching the Grammys with the sound off. Nigel has a mixed CD on while we gossip abut the acts and the clothes on the TV.

The song on the stereo changes. It’s a remix some DJ did of “Smells Like Teen Spirit” and “Bootylicious”. How could I not love a song called “Smells Like Booty”? I start moving in time to the music.

I see Amrys out of the corner of my eye. She’s moving as well. Amrys is gorgeous, but she’s never going to be a supermodel. She is a fencer (epees, not stolen goods) who is compact and muscular, and as curvaceous as anything. She’s also a lot of fun.

We catch each other’s eyes and begin lip-synching to the Beyonce side of things, as well as headbanging to the Nirvana side. The hips start shimmying, the air guitar starts getting a workout. The embarassment is more than worth the fun.

We sink into the delicious shame of being in a room full of people, lip-synching and posturing to one another. I’m sliding off my stool, she’s out of her seat. Probably we look completely ridiculous to anyone looking at us, but it doesn’t matter. We are a living parody of the wriggling bodies on the TV screen. Our faces contort as we pretend to feel Beyonce’s disdain, our heads doing that back-and-forth thing, our hands springing up for the most obvious guitar parts of “Teen Spirit”. We end in a crashing crescendo of soulful faces and flailing guitar hands.

We are totally stupid-looking, and we are having more fun than anyone else in the bar.