Tag Archives: trance

All Ages Show

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Hypnotic trance beats, neon lights at the DJ booth, an unruly crowd at the bar, and me finally trying out some moves beyond child’s pose.  It’s 7am.  I may no longer be checking the “18-34” age box on the mail-in surveys, but who says the fun has to stop?

I hear the groans already.  A middle-aged person at a club sounds as pleasing as a tuna and chocolate sandwich.  Back when I could gleefully check the aforementioned age box, I swore I would know to stop clubbing well before my expiration date.  And what marks the expiration date?  Well, being concerned about the safety of your purse is probably a flag.  Are you standing around trying to guess people’s ages?  Hoping against the odds there is a nice white wine you can order, instead of a shot of Fireball?  And if you don’t know what Fireball is, then that is a very unhidden clue to stay home and keep enjoying “Modern Family.”

But before you get judgy on me, imagining Leona Helmsley squeezed into a bandage dress, trying to avoid getting elbowed in the left eye by a flailing whippersnapper, I give you two words: morning rave.  This is my new mantra.  Forget affirming every morning that I love myself, as well as that mean woman on the Metro who took two seats with her giant backpack.  That only worked when I followed it up with a cherry chocolate scone – then I loved everybody.

Admittedly, I was a little worried when I walked into the spartan club at 7:01 a.m. and couldn’t spot the bathrooms right away.  For a split second, I panicked that I had missed reading about the new trend on retro outhouses.  But once the DJ put his fingers to work, I settled into the beats, and let my anxiety trickle away little by little.  I spotted a group of moms in their yoga pants, dancing protectively in a circle, stopping for the occasional selfie, and then carefully tucking their phones into their bras.  And the slightly overweight youngster, wonderfully uninhibited in his rhythmic gymnastics, unaware he would eventually hurt somebody.  But it was all good.

Maybe it was because I watched the sun from the club’s rooftop, slowly strengthening its rays.  Perhaps the bartender roofied the outstanding iced coffees at the bar.  I don’t care.  Morning Rave.  Close your eyes, and say it with me.

When One Door Closes, Knock Anyway

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Twenty years ago, I was just a kid avoiding contact with the world, walking the streets of Manhattan with a giant Walkman slung on my hip.  I was often listening to the static between radio stations, but looking engrossed to any passerby.  “This is the most poignant haunting melody ever created by man, and I must look through you as I may attain nirvana in the next minute.”  The real wish behind my expression: please go away.

Then one day at work, I got an office.  Hurrah, no more forced camaraderie all day long.  I could finally let my hair down; especially since my optimal hair-drying method involved repeatedly twisting the hair and shoving it into the back of my shirt. And I could now attack food freely during phone calls, without worrying about the cute blond copywriter across the way staring at the black bean on my cheek.  A new world.

At first, I tried to learn and live by the cues of office door etiquette.  Of course an open door meant an invitation to come one, come all.  Also, beware if you happened to be one of those souls who courteously called out “Bless You” for a sneeze in the hallway.  The recipient would soon come into your office to express gratitude, and fifty other details about the day.  Hrrrumph.

So I began plugging in my headphones, infused with a steady internet stream of trance and Colombian rock.  And yet, people would still saunter in, and surprisingly, start talking.  Darn tiny earbuds, too unnoticeable for the human eye.  Eventually I resorted to a half-closed door stance, combined with large headphones; and I blocked time on my online calendar, which was visible to all.  “I wanted you to know, there is some cake left from Karen’s birthday party,” was the first no-knock, walk in.  The second was “Can I ask you something?”

The next day, I closed the door fully.  For hours.  Knock.  Ignore.  Knock again. Silence.  Folder slipped under the door – a birthday card being circulated for signatures.  I failed to grasp the critical nature of this, but no surprise there.  Instant Message began flickering in the lower quadrant of my screen, “Are you busy?”

So the years move forward, and here I am still in my office chair, trying to shrivel up and disappear, but awaiting a knock at any moment.  For someone will always need to talk to you.  Right now.  Just like there will always be unavoidable crowds of people on your side of the street trying to make eye contact. One of them may try to be really friendly and rub up against your back while you are waiting at the crosswalk.  I think it’s OK to tell that person to go away.