My Left Leg

My left leg has more rhythm than my right. I know this because I’m at a concert and it won’t not stop weaving back and forth. It seems to feel every note, every kick of the bass drum, and it knows exactly how to react: by weaving back and forth.

They say that the left side of your brain is the organized, business-like side of your brain that eats grape nuts for breakfast every morning, works 9 to 5, and enjoys solving Rubik’s cubes. The right side of your brain is the artistic side that gets up at 12:30, drinks coffee like it’s water, and enjoys discussing whether there is even such a thing as objective “truth.” You’d think the right side would enjoy music more, but maybe it’s just that the left is better at anticipating the beat.

In any case, my left leg is really “feelin’ it” as I stand in an enthusiastic crowd of people who know the band way better than I do. I look down at it, slightly embarrassed. I wish it would stop. Either that, or I wish the rest of my body would catch up.

They also say that the right side of your brain controls the left side of your body and vice-versa, so maybe that explains my leg’s behavior. Perhaps human beings would make way more sense if our wiring weren’t so crisscrossed. Maybe we wouldn’t have any violence, or psychological problems, or politics. But maybe that’s what so great about us. Maybe if the wires weren’t so jumbled together, people like Einstein would never have invented awesome stuff like relativity, the Olympics, and pizza.

I’ve been wanting pizza for nearly a month, and for some reason have not gotten around to eating any. This may beat a record for me. On top of that, I’m super hungry because I haven’t had any dinner except for a few nachos I got from a guy who had ordered too many and felt like sharing.

What precious energy I obtained from those nachos is now being expended because my left leg is really groovin’. I’m surrounded by hipsters, who apparently love this rapper more than their flannel shirts and expensive haircuts. All around me, I can feel their hipstery-hyper-self-awareness radiating out of their bodies and into mine. Suddenly I wonder if it’s obvious that I had my friend Bess cut my hair to “pretty short” in her dorm room. Also, the fact that I’m wearing a blue sweater my mom bought me years ago must be stupid.

Ah! I take a mental anvil and drop it on myself from a cliff. I didn’t come here to judge myself, I came to listen to music. At least my left leg did.

They also say that all that left brain-right brain stuff is bullshit. They say so many god damn things and later They tell you that you can’t believe a word They say. They are very irresponsible with the things They say, and there’s no filter. They just keep saying things from the moment we’re born until the moment we die, and unfortunately, it’s up to you and me to decide what’s worth listening to.

And the more I listen, the more I realize this rapper isn’t. Maybe it’s just the horde of people around me with their mouths wide open screaming the lyrics along with him, but he sounded better on my friend’s car’s speakers than on the enormous ones hanging from the ceiling right above my head.

But I’m gonna stay until he’s done, because I paid eighteen bucks for my left leg to go crazy. Also, if I try to leave now, his fans might attack me with their anorexic arms and club me to death. Though if things come to a fight, at least the rest of my body would know what to do.

That’s it. I try closing my eyes, shutting out everyone else, so now it’s just me and the music. This works immediately, and now the rest of my body can bob and sway and my left leg won’t be stranded by itself on an island of dance. My beach party is short lived, because soon enough, my dancing and someone else’s collide and my eyes snap open.

The morass of moving bodies around me starts as one object, then resolves into individual people. The offending body part that my arm struck happens to be the butt of a girl in front of me who is budging to the front so she can record the performance on her iPhone, and luckily for me, she doesn’t care who touches her or where, as long as she can have video evidence that she saw this rapper singing her favorite song in his underwear.

Undoubtedly she’ll post the video on the internet despite the opening band’s insistence that we should spend less time there. And even though people can hear a better version if they buy the album, she’ll hope for her video to get more views than her last one, and she’ll want people to comment saying that they wish they’d been there.

But I’m no better, because already I’m writing the first few lines of something about my left leg in my head, and if I ever get around to finishing them, I’ll put them up on my blog, and I’ll wish that more people will read and understand them than my last post.

Like me, the girl whose butt I whacked with my wrist wants to be noticed. We are both part of the Them that won’t shut up. She won’t stop recording videos and I won’t stop writing, and all we want is an audience. We want someone to be filtering through all the stupid things They say and come upon something we said and think, that was worth listening to.

To my relief, the crowd surfer who has been threatening to make her way over to me ends up on the stage instead. She jubilantly belts out lyrics with the band until the friendly-looking bouncer takes her by the hand and leads her back into the crowd.

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About CobraQuiz

A political writer.
This entry was posted in Non-fiction and tagged , , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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