Dance or Die
Broken sunglasses are probably worse than a broken ankle
Article by Logan Smith, art by Emmaline Hawley
Content Warning: Sexual assault, mental illness
I think a lot about the first-years who watched me, limping on a drunk-running-induced sprained ankle, sobbing about breaking $2 sunglasses I got from the ARC earlier that day. There were other things to cry about too—there always are when dipping in and out of sweaty houses—but I sat on a porch table, swinging my limp, bloated ankle in the face of anyone who would look at it. I asked so many drunk strangers if it was broken, none of whom could provide me with a sufficient answer. I clutched those broken sunglasses the whole night and super glued them back together the next morning, only to have them break again a day later.
I think about the aloof soft boy who laughed when he told me, “I woke up inside of you.” I laughed too, even though it wasn’t funny. That whole day, I felt hollow. Not hungover-empty-head kind of hollow. It was everywhere and I walked around feeling light in a scary way. When he asked me how I wanted to “proceed,” I said we could forget about it. We hung out for another month or so and then never talked again.
On nights out, I run blocks ahead of my friends, lungs inflating and deflating so quickly that I end up crouching beside someone’s Subaru Outback to cry, again, and hyperventilate. Fellow drunk runners don’t notice me as they pass by and I watch them bounce up and down, ankles flailing dangerously off-kilter. I always squint at their shirt collars and fists, checking for sunglasses.
At work, I clean glassware and take shots that taste like candy. The bartenders joke about being alcoholics. I laugh, even though it’s not funny. One announces to the rest of us that he’s doing “Sober October” (he’s a lukewarm liberal who spends all of his time at the gym). He makes it three days in and then switches out his soda with a bottle of Fernet Branca. He tells me Joe Rogan didn’t follow through with Sober October, so why should he? I don’t have an answer for him and I don’t want to talk about Joe Rogan, ever. We take a shot together.
Unfortunately, Joe Rogan reminds me of every white cis-man ever and one disappointing ex in particular. When we stopped dating, I felt that same hollowness I’ve felt before, but only for a few weeks. I realize now that I miss his mom more than I miss him. I thought about calling her when I broke my sunglasses. I’m not sure what I would’ve said. Hi. It’s been a while. I broke my sunglasses. Maybe, Hi. I don’t want to talk about the breakup. I want to talk about my broken sunglasses and about your art and about the lake. Is it still smoky up there? My friends took my phone away to keep me from drunk-dialing my ex’s mom.
I think about my ex again, though, the day I receive a type-written love note from someone I barely know, tucked between brownies wrapped in tinfoil and a tupperware full of gelato. It’s something my ex would’ve done—something he did do, often. I recycle the love note and tell the handsome stranger I can’t see him like that anymore. Slowly, I’m learning how to tell people what I don’t want.
My roommate and I practice conversations I’ll have with lovers, exes, friends who think we’re more than that. I’m tired of not talking about what I need, but being tired doesn’t make initiating these conversations any less scary. She reminds me that they always go smoother than I think they will.
I imagine me and my housemates as one huge creature with 20 akimbo limbs, swaying this and that way, filling every space with mass amounts of noise. It’s a sometimes-concerning, sometimes-joyful melding together. Our neighbors know when we aren’t home because it’s the only time of day (and night) when our house isn’t emanating laughter or scream-singing. We go through a 25-pack of Coronas in a week. Our fridge broke and now the only thing left in it is beer and Smirnoff Ice (for Ice wars, not enjoyment). There are always garlic skins scattered across our kitchen floor and our plants are dying on the living room windowsill. We joke about how the state of our house reflects our collective mental health. It hasn’t been clean since we moved in.
When I became single again, I couldn’t remember how to ask for hugs. I couldn’t remember how to hold hands with people I wasn’t fucking. I don’t think I fully realized I could be held by my friends until this year. I like spooning my platonic lovers. It isn’t tense; the care is never conditional or dependent on sex. Platonic intimacy has become an important part of my life. The cuddle piles materialize just about anywhere—the front lawn, two-person loveseats, even Cowboys (which we no longer frequent for reasons you’d likely expect). My roommate described us as falling in love with each other. These are the healthiest relationships I’ve been in in a long time.
Amber Mark’s cover of “Thong Song” is the current ass-shaking anthem of my house. Amber blows Sisqo out of the water with her heavenly voice. I’ve scream-sung the word “thong” probably a few hundred times this semester. Remi Wolf’s “Liz” works for any occasion—shots, drives to Target, stops at the gas station, brunch prep. Alabama Shakes’ “Heavy Chevy” is a phenomenal dance song for utilizing every single limb. We’re also big into power ballads by femmes who’ve been wronged. Olivia Rodrigo offers us probably too much solace these days. If you’ve ever passed Pillar House, heard faint music coming from my ten-year-old speaker, and been told to “dance or die,” that was us. We realized probably too late how that might come across as threatening, especially at night, especially while walking home drunk. Apologies if we’ve ever scared you. However, the next time you hear it, you better come dance with us.
As my hangovers begin to stretch across entire days, I am reminded of the fact that I’m an “adult.” But I don't feel like one. I feel four-years-old when I take three-hour-long naps in the afternoon. Sometimes, I grow up to about 17. I go home for breaks and eat buttered noodles out of one of my mom’s plethora of pots. At my house, we only have one. Our recipes are limited.
Monday morning mimosas are losing their luster. Tony’s Tuesdays make me nauseous. Alliteration can only take you so far when applied to heavy drinking. Alcohol doesn’t fight off anxiety. It doesn’t mix well with antidepressants either, not that I’m necessarily deterred by these truths.
I think about the bong I shared with my roommate sophomore year. We named her Rhea after the Roman Goddess of motherhood. We joked that she was our “college mom,” an instant source of comfort whenever things felt too hard. Weed made time slow down, made my skin tingle, made me focus on my entire body, every strand of hair on my head. It made everything funny. My friends’ smiles made me laugh, how they walked, the way they stared off into space. Visualizing my own body slumped on the couch made me laugh too. But I don’t smoke anymore.
I think about the night we spent in purgatory (Denny’s) after a concert at Red Rocks. I watched the unbearably sweet milkshake in front of me sweat—tiny beads of condensation creeping down the side of the glass. I watched a woman in a wedding dress lug her skirt up and head to the bathroom. She didn’t come out for twenty minutes and I wondered about her for the rest of the night. I liked imagining a honeymoon at Denny’s. Two of my friends and I sat in our sticky booth until 2 a.m. The food was bad. I chugged coffee in hopes of clearing my fuzzy, beer-fogged head. I realize now that Denny’s is worse than IHOP.
When I’m drunk, I love doing dishes. I could stand in the kitchen and plunge my hands into dirty sink water for hours. An exercise in finger swimming. An exercise in learning to keep a kitchen “tidy.” Playing house with other babies.
Sometimes, I feel helpless here and other times I feel like I’m coming into my own. Here, we figure things out slowly. We call our parents a lot, but probably not as much as we should. I disclose my drunk injuries to them, which is always a bit funny but mostly mortifying. I thought the sprained ankle would be the first and last drunken injury, then I was sure falling down all of the stairs leading into my basement bedroom had to be the last. As I write this, in the midst of publication week chaos, I’m newly on crutches. No biggie. I feel really good about it. I feel even better about the fact that I fucked my knee up while dancing on my porch. I remember being spun around by a friend and then crashing to the floor, which was really fun to explain to Penrose Hospital staff. I hope that this will actually be my last drunk injury. Realistically, I know it won’t be. I feel like next time, I’ll probably shoot for a damaged wrist just to switch it up a bit.
Despite the sleep deprivation, the copious drinking, and the severe lack of motivation, I haven’t had a panic attack in months. And that feels new. And good. I eat a Trader Joe’s ice cream sandwich every single night, lose every house key I’ve ever touched, and spill so many water glasses at work, but it’s the first time in a long time that I feel good in my body. Slowly, I’m beginning to trust myself.
My sunglasses are still sitting in two pieces on my kitchen countertop. For whatever reason, I can’t bring myself to throw them out. At this point, they’re covered in an impenetrably thick layer of superglue. I think they’ll sit there for a while, bearing witness to a kitchen counter covered in dirty shot glasses and dried up limes, feeling the vibrations of happy, drunken feet pounding on kitchen tiles.