Every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, I find myself in a compromising position with a near-stranger. It's usually a man, and we're locked in a strange sort of embrace. My fingers might be laced together on the back of his head, pulling his face close to my neck. His hand might be gripping the back of my shirt, one elbow pressed against my cheekbone. We shuffle around awkwardly as if slow-dancing in a school cafeteria to "Lady in Red," softly kneeing each other in the groin.
Later I drive home, battered from head to toe, a giant bruise already blooming down my arm like a long winter shadow. I can see in the rearview mirror that my hair has pulled loose from my headband in unflattering sweat-slick tufts, and the majority of my makeup has probably been smeared down someone's shirt. Every part of my body aches. I turn up my radio and lustily sing along, butchering the lyrics and caring not a whit. "Clap along if you feel like a broom without a hoof!"
I'm completely and utterly exuberant.