Jumping in

Making friends with strangers on the dance floor and accepting that staying put is no longer an option.

“More girls need to be on elevated surfaces!”

I shout this in some unassuming stranger's face. She flinches as I draw near her, my voice barely audible over the sound of the bass pounding through the speakers. She nods and laughs awkwardly, obviously not able to make out what it is that I have just yelled at her.

I was packed shoulder to shoulder with six other girls on a bench 2ft off the ground, each one slightly more under the influence than the next. We moved in time with the rhythm of the music, our movements becoming one in an effort to keep everyone in place. I looked out over a sea of bobbing heads, the red LED lights creating shadows of faces, masks where profiles used to be. If I reached out, it would all fade away, simply a mirage upheld by disco ball reflections and cigarette smoke.

Swept up in the energy of the atmosphere, I must have felt the urge to share in my euphoria by pulling more girls up to join on the already crammed bench. I ignored the frustrated and bewildered looks of those below us and continued to let the solidness of those around me hold up my body, and the music filling the club hold up my spirit. At that altitude, nothing was real, and if I tried really hard, I could almost forget that this was one of the last nights like this.

The arrival of spring brings a tinge of bittersweetness this year, graduation looming large in the future. The impermanence of my current lifestyle is tangible, and as the days pass, it has become more difficult to ignore the impending shift. I wanted to glue myself to this bench with these first-year girls beside me, hoping that if I stayed there long enough, I could defy the laws of time and space and mesh myself back to their lifestyle, their only big decisions revolving around which bar they are going to next weekend.

A week later, my Friday night looked very different. I stood shivering in my roommate’s one-piece bathing suit next to my university’s public pool. A most unwelcome feeling was the warm, squishy overflow collecting on the tiled deck, the sensation under my toes evoked memories of swimming lessons I hated attending as a child. I felt exposed in the harsh lighting and longed for the comfort of a cozy couch, but the rush from the promise of a good night kept me rooted in place.

I never liked swimming; I didn’t like the uncertainty of the water below, not knowing the depth or the temperature. I didn’t like getting my hair wet and smelling like chlorine. I didn’t like getting my ears clogged and then spending the rest of the day jumping from foot to foot trying to dislodge the stubborn liquid. But this day, I wasn’t bothered. I felt silly and carefree, and the usual things I often worried about at a public pool fell to the back of my mind, replaced by giggles, games, and a sense of belonging.

After an hour of swimming, we climbed back onto the deck, teeth chattering. We turned to face the pool, the chemicals drying out our skin and turning our eyes red, clasping each other’s hands in preparation for one final jump. No matter how many times I did this, I still couldn’t anticipate the sensation that accompanied being immersed, the fear of not knowing when I’d return to the top. I could just stay here, I thought to myself, I don’t have to jump, but I knew this was not an option; I cannot stay glued here forever. With the warmth of my friend’s palm against mine, I jumped.

Notes from my night out. Recommend everyone do this to have stories for the next day.