I was young and sweet, only seventeen, dancing in the middle of a town fair in Stowe, Vermont. Tourists, my friends, and various town officials sat back to watch me feel the beat from the tambourine. Oh, yeah.
That summer night, everything changed.
Before we get into ABBA, let’s roll it back a bit, shall we?
My whole life, summer was a time I spent exposing myself to sun damage via the community pool’s swim team, eating mint chocolate chip ice cream from Wild Willy’s, and trying to stifle a burning desire to feel seen. Those three months between each school year, I couldn’t hide behind textbooks and winter layers–I was vulnerable. Summer was scary because it was a time I wasn’t bound by obligation. I didn’t have to go to school, I didn’t have to go to swim practice 6 times/week–I had some sort of control over my life… *shudders in teen* That might seem like an exciting time to you, dear reader, but when you spend your entire life running from your instincts and your inclinations, I can assure you it is not.
To my surprise, running got old (also, I was never good at it… I once cheated on a running test by going across the shrubs that split the course in half) and I found myself coming out to one of my summer friends.
Summer Friend, noun
a person with whom one has a bond of mutual affection exclusively during the months of June, July and August (except for that one time in November when you go see Twilight on release night)
Ashleigh is my summer friend, I don’t really see her when school starts. Not because I don’t want to, but because that’s just not what summer friends do
I came out to [Redacted] the summer of my fourteenth year. We had been friends at daycare and reconnected on the pool deck over Sour Cherry Blasters and Jumbo Mr. Freezes. It was the middle of August, at night, under the floodlights of an abandoned tennis court. In case you were wondering, yes, it counts even if you only get as far as, “I have something to tell you…” before you trail off, start crying and she has to play 20 questions to get you there and you never actually say the words, but you nod a bunch while snot pours from your nose.
“Do you like someone?”
Nod (this was a lie, unless I meant Joe Jonas)
“Is that someone a boy?”
Nod (okay, I was definitely thinking about Joe Jonas)
Here is where things get interesting… We have an unreliable narrator folks: my brain! A good ten years after that night on the cold green concrete, [Redacted] and I laughed at how different our recollections of the subsequent events were. She remembered trying to reach out in the following days to no avail, getting completely iced out by me on MSN Messenger, and us not speaking for nearly 5 years. I remembered her running away from me that night, ignoring me the last few weeks of summer vacation, and me vowing to never come out again.
So, what is the truth? *turns to camera with a knowing glance*
Now that I’m no longer a fourteen-year-old walking pimple, I can share that sometimes when you think you’ve stopped running, you’re actually just at one of the water stations on the marathon track. You get a taste of what it might feel like to be done, but soon enough you carry on. The little goblets that litter the streets are the leftovers from various forms of hating yourself–the one feeling you’re used to.
Summers kept passing and I eventually made it to another water station. This one’s cups were boy-shaped. Ouh, fun!! Once I took a sip, I thought, surely I’m done. Alas, my legs only had a short respite–things got weird and messy, but that’s a story for another time (or another book, if I’m honest). At this point, I had come out to everyone already, so why was I still on the racetrack? When was I going to stop?
Without warning, it happened the summer after [Redacted Boy]. I was wearing 4-inch inseam denim shorts and some vintage striped t-shirt (I know, this doesn’t sound like an outfit for running… I mean, the chafing alone!). My tenure at American Apparel was in full swing, which meant I had a mean streak, thought I knew a lot about fashion, and was likely hungry. At a ripe 17, I had encountered so many people who were wearing leather loafers in lieu of running shoes. I envied their footwear, but didn’t know how to get my own pair.
Some time in August, my friends and I drove down to Vermont for a weekend. On our last night, we decided to “hit the town.” A fair had turned the main street of Stowe into an old-timey sock hop. On the makeshift dance floor, we stuck out like sore thumbs. We were the youngest people there by a few decades, which was fine at first. Then came the staring, the snickering, the side-eyeing, all building in me an urge to run.
Before I could take my mark, I heard the opening glissando of Dancing Queen. In time with the first few notes and for no apparent reason, the fairgoers, my friends, everyone retreated to the sidewalk. But I was in the mood for a dance, so I didn’t go.
Spotlight on, front and centre, I was more visible than I’d ever felt. The music took over my body and I was no longer who I’d been up to that point, I was a dancing queen and everyone knew it. With every shoulder shimmy and pelvic pop, thoughts of [Redacted Summer Friend], [Redacted Boy], and everything in the B.C. era (Before Choosing to Dance to Dancing Queen at a Street Fair in Vermont) melted away. Even in the moment I remember thinking that I’d never be able to go back. I was hanging up my numbered bib and tossing my Asics on the nearest power line. My god did that feel good! It was like I had been training for it my whole life, my years on the track were preparing me for that moment. When you think about it, dance and running are pretty similar. One arm going this way, the other going that way, legs doing whatever they want, all four limbs synched up to some internal tempo.
Eyes were glued to my fingers, still sticky from Ben & Jerry’s, moving with spirit the way Sparky Polastri taught me in the seminal Bring It On. I was seeing people see me, and for the first time, I loved it.
In those few seconds before the crowd joined in again, I blinked into being. I can’t tell you why, or what changed, or how I got there–just that I did. Isn’t that ironic? I spent all that time waiting for the moment, for my turn at the monkey bars, and it happened so suddenly I almost missed it.
Maybe it was the power of ABBA.
Maybe it was my armour-thick skin made up of calluses.
Maybe it was Maybelline.
All I know is that when it happened, I was ready. So I’ll leave you with this: Make sure you’ve stretched, head up, shoulders back, and dance, queen.
So good! Summer friends are so REAL! 🌞
"I blinked into being." Nic, how DARE you!!! The way this whole piece made my heart swell and also gave me goosebumps. You are so damn talented!!