Safety Dance.

While in Dubai, I got to experience a phenomenon known as ladies’ night. Sure, we have those kinds of nights here in the US, but this one was different: men were banned for the first two hours of the doors opening. Presumably so that we could get adequately stewed without all of those annoying distractions. And that we did.

We each purchased (rented, actually—except mine turned up later in my handbag...hmmm) a special plastic champagne flute for a mere 50 dirhams (about 13.50 USD) that very optimistically promised to never be less than half full. In doing so, it also promised that we would quickly lose track of just how much pink champagne we had consumed. Diabolical, no?

The music was all but deafening, and the couches were far enough apart that, between these two conspiring characteristics, it was nearly impossible to have a conversation with my fellow revelers. And, so, sipping and gawking were the favored activities to pass the hours.

As it is known that we all get more wise and insightful in our intoxication, I started to have some profound contemplation about how we handle ourselves when the urge to dance arises. The most inhibited of us sat on our cushions and wiggled to the beat. Occasionally an arm swing or a finger snap might slip in, but that was the extent of our mettle.

The second tier of would-be contortionists freed their extremities and succumbed to the rhythm, but only in the secure zone that was their chosen seating for the night. As if somehow they were protected by the familiarity of their belongings. I videoed one of these specimens, not to make fun (really, despite one of my flock cackling mercilessly in the foreground), but to document this curious behavior.

 

Finally, of course, there were the liberated. Those who chose the dancefloor with admirable abandon. That's where the living is, methinks.