So I pose the question, when did grinding become a thing? I know that seems innocent but really, when did dancing turn into a pre-emptive trial dry hump session?
Have we ever broken down the actual logistics of a "grinding encounter"? I don't think so. It must be done.
Step one: I'm dancing with my friends, when all of a sudden my hips are taken over by a third party. My personal bubble has officially acquired an uninvited guest.
Step two: in the off chance that the hottest man at the party has chosen me as his prey, I try to use drunk-dance sign language to ask my friends who the heck my new suitor is. After several miscommunications I choose to stay put because, according to my bestie, he has a really good body and killer jaw line or man boobs and a double chin—some things get lost in translation, but I'm willing to take a gamble in the hopes that my future husband is behind me (what a story for the kids!).
Step three: We find our rhythm. This sounds easy, but it took us a while. I especially loved that moment when our hips were oscillating at different speeds and then we had to stop to find the rhythm again. But we've got this down now.
Step four: In an effort to seduce me—I think—he comes closer and presses his lips on my neck, breathing in and out—perfect! I was getting so cold on this crowded dance floor, thanks for providing some hot, sweaty steam right next to my already "glistening" hairline—much better.
Step five: In an effort to be more inclusive, his friend has joined the party and decided to test-ride one of my friends—so nice of them to think of including my gal pals. We watch painfully as they proceed through steps one through four and now we're in this fun little gyrating love square. Should my friend and I hold hands, or possibly high five the fact that we've been "chosen?" Oh, never mind, I just saw your buddy give you the nod so this is obviously going in the right direction—hooray!
Step six: The song is coming to an end. We try to hold out as long as we can, but eventually it looks like we're doing a partner hula-hoop in silence. Then comes the moment of truth, the face-to-face hello. I slowly turn around anticipating a cool, "hey girl" from Ryan Gosling, when in fact, my betrothed is not so tall, dark and handsome, but more so short, balding and lazy-eyed.
We'll make awkward small talk and possibly enjoy a shot of something from the bar's rail selection. Come the end of the night, there will be no glass slipper for this girl, just a misspelled drunken text at 3 a.m.
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