I always felt self-conscious on Valentine’s Day. Every year I would think I needed someone special to celebrate it with. And every year, I felt the stinging sensation of witnessing chocolates being passed out, roses given with sweet significance, cards being signed with detail and care.

Single, shamed, and downright blue, I was determined to have my own fun.

So instead of spending the night at a quiet, romantic restaurant with Pepto-Bismol colored decor, I decided to sweat out my pain through my lover that would never leave me–dancing.

With my best dancing shoes in tow and my favorite skinnies attached to my hip (literally,) I decided to try something new and headed to The Old Blue Last, an Indie-scene type bar in London’s Shoreditch.

Headbands strapped to their foreheads, and 70s rocker pants sewn to their thighs, these Indie scenesters were crooning to every song being played.Never had I witnessed so many people jitter-bugging it the way they did in the 70s. Never had I imagined that bumping and grinding could even be possible with The White Stripes playing aloud. Never had I thought that I would witness a grown man on stage doing an interpretive butterfly-out-of-its-chrysalis dance to the Sex Pistols

And here I was, sticking out like a sore thumb, dancing with strangers who had way too much beer and hardly enough cocaine.

People were jumping up and down without rhythm or care, flailing their arms awkwardly with zeal. A girl was interpreting a slow song with not only legs and arms, but intricately synchronized with her fingers, toes, and characterized facial expressions. She danced across the stage holding herself with self-assurance, making a gesture to the sky, and finally lying faced down on the ground, confident.

At first I thought this girl was out of her mind, drunk, cracked out, high. But slowly I began noticing that her movements were genuine, her gestures sincere–an expression of her feelings, thoughts, opinions shown through the assistance of a simple song blasted through the speakers.

And people around all seemed to have her demeanor and aura.

I learned yesterday that dancing was more than just a thing you do to forget about everything else. Dancing was about heart, about expression. Freedom, a 60′s f*** you attitude sans the angst. A convoluted contortion of the body bouncing from the front stage to the back of the bar not caring what anyone thought.

Being comfortable with yourself.

As I stood there carelessly beginning to raise my hands in the air, I began slowly forgetting what today was. Where I was, what Valentine’s Day was for that matter, what kind of mood it was supposed to be all didn’t matter.

All that mattered was The Rolling Stones in my ears, an air-guitar secure in my hands, and a shashay of confidence which reminded me that roses really do smell when they die.