Thin blood

          Last night marked the first party I've hosted at school.
          I think we can safely call that one a success. It was a theme party (the only kind of party worth having) - I thought it'd be fitting for a goodbye party to be themed Dearly Departed. People dressed up as the dead. We had Steve Irwin, Charleton Heston, the eighties, punk rock, Spandex, foreplay, and Hilary Clinton's campaign, to name a few.
          I'm ... a little torn. You know, while I'm a staunch advocate of alcohol, I also think it's unfortunate that we need it so desperately in order to interact with one another honestly. For the first twenty minutes of the party last night, people showed up and sat on the couches and chairs, reserved, carefully not touching one another, making small and safe conversation. When I commented on it, someone said, by way of explanation, "Fenn went to get tequila - she'll be back soon."
          As if this made it all right - we're just waiting for the alcohol to show up, and then we'll stop being insecure.
          I guess it isn't bad. The party was really fun, to be honest. And I imbibed a large amount of fermented grain beverage ... so I guess there's no real room for me to speak on the subject.

          Something I noticed (I've thought about this before, but it was wildly apparent to me last night) is that people here at school are afraid of touching. Well, probably this is not widely true, but in my circle of friends, there seems to be this contagious phobia of physical contact.
          At home, my friends and I are pretty touchy. Arms rest companionably on knees and shoulders, heads touch, hair is played with, we sprawl in comfortable piles on the floor and beds. Standard greetings consist of smiling "Hey!"s and enthusiastic hugs.
          Coming to school, I found myself half-involuntarily constructing this standoffish persona. Part of it was caused by insecurity, not wanting to move in for a hug and impose myself upon an unwilling victim, and part of it was caused by the attitudes of the people around me, who all seemed content with a degree of isolation.
          Maybe this is because of the nature of small communities - all actions are overinterpreted, so we avoid contact to avoid erroneous speculation. You can't sling an arm around someone's waist, rest your head on someone's shoulder, without it meaning more than mere companionable friendship.
          I noticed that, when tipsy, my tactile side comes out - all the time spent holding back, keeping my hands to myself, all that pent up affection is released. I put my hand on people's arms when I laugh, latch onto ties and lapels, pull people to me by their pockets and belts, sit with my back against someone's chest. I relish that.
          Like today - I came home and ran into a friend. I threw my arms around his neck and hugged him, and we wandered around our local bookstore arm in arm, comfortable, happy to be together. There was nothing awkward or sexual about it - it was just affection, the recognition of the comfort derived from the physical proximity of someone we care about. Humans are made for contact. We get depressed and ill when we're deprived of it.
          But we spend our time denying that part of ourselves. It isn't until the blood has been thinned out sufficiently to paint one's cheeks with an artificial blush that we can let go and loosen our hold on our insecurities. What are we afraid of?
          I want to be able to own up to my honesty without having that safety net - without being able to blame alcohol for my actions or words.
          This year, more than ever, I realize how much I hate when someone can only be honest when intoxicated.
          So it's not the alcohol - it's the mentality of those of us drinking it that remains the problem. We think of it, however erroneously, as a license to be more honest, or to be stupid, without personal responsibility or any repurcussions.

          This is a hollow complaint. I know that I'll probably continue to act the same way, and to wait for the aid of alcohol to say what's on my mind and do what my nerve endings want.
          But it'd be nice if we could change.