In college I went to a lot of parties—mostly because my friends did, and that’s what I thought you were supposed to do in college, even though I didn’t like parties very much. The vast majority of the time, they were too loud with too many people and cheap drinks; I couldn’t have a full conversation with anyone or find a place to sit down, all of which completely wore out my introverted tendencies.
And the dancing. Oh, the dancing. Despite twelve years of ballet under my belt as a kid, dancing at a party (or even worse, at a club) was the opposite of fun to me. I hated it. I wanted to sit in a dim bar with comfortable booths and a delicious craft beer and talk to my friends or new people in a chill vibe. Instead I found myself in a lot of situations where I was at a party where everyone danced, and I felt angst over wanting to seem fun and cool and game, but also knowing the scene just wasn’t me. Once I remember standing at a house party with my then-boyfriend, red Solo cup in my hand, trying to fit in. One of his pals came up to me and asked why I wasn’t dancing. “Oh, I don’t know; I don’t really want to,” I replied. “Come on, at least try to be fun,” he teased curtly. Ouch. I weakly smiled—mostly because at nineteen years old, I didn’t feel confident enough to call him an asshole, nor did I realize I could not like things other people liked without shame or a sense of insecurity. I also felt like if I responded to him, I’d have to launch into a long story about why I didn’t like parties, which seemed exhausting even then.
Now I know better. And I’ll tell you the same thing: you can own what you don’t like without constantly feeling like you have to explain or defend how you feel. That’s how we live by our values and priorities, and it’s a good skill to cultivate.