Cowboys Orlando: The Club of Line-Dancing, Lost IDs, and Dog-Bowl Larceny

I like to think that as an artist, I’m a real bohemian, a free spirit who goes with the flow. But I’m not. I thrive on structure.

In fact, throughout my acting years, a small part of me would die every time we had to do improv. I preferred rehearsed, calculated performances—secure and approved. And now you want me to pivot — I cannot pivot, by the way — on my heels and start acting all willy-nilly? Where’s the security in that?

It’s a sad sight, honestly. After the first few times I completely floundered, there was a non-verbal agreement that maybe I’m better off just watching.

I mention this because I feel that it gives you a glimpse into my personality. Despite being an amazing, hilarious, creative, all-around fun-loving friend, I still like structure and what’s comfortable.

My aversion to chaos made moving to college an adjustment. Sure, I shared a dorm with my hometown friend Carlyn, but she was the epitome of carefree, thriving in spontaneity — joining intramural basketball and inquiring about the waterskiing club. Meanwhile, I sought structure and found it in a sorority with amazing women, scheduled events, volunteering, and meetings — just what I needed.

One night, the evening before our official initiation into the sorority, the girls had agreed that we should all go out. Line dancing. If you remember where I literally just confided in you that I cannot pivot, you can probably infer that I cannot line dance either, except for the “Cotton-Eyed Joe” and the line dance rendition of the “Wobble.” I tear those up.

While we’re on a confession streak, I should add I had gone out maybe three other times in my life to bars. We had line dancing back home, but there were fourteen-year-olds on the dance floor there. Now I was ready to make it four times!

But first, I had to work for a princess party as Audrey from Descendants. Not the lead, but a stuck-up villain in a three-foot-long wig and rubber knit top.

After two hours of looming in character, I sped back to my dorm to change for the night. I just had to grab my keys, phone, and… maybe not my purse. I can’t dance with a purse, that’d be ridiculous. And the last thing I want is to set it down on a table and have it stolen by some hooligan while I was trying, and most likely failing, to learn the dance to Ed Sheeran’s “Shivers.”

I drove downtown to meet my friends at Cowboys, the line-dancing club, got out of my car, and that’s when I realized I’d forgotten my ID.

It was in my purse. The purse I had left on purpose was on the floor of my dorm.

Internally panicking, I asked my friends, “Hypothetically, if someone left their ID… do you think they’d let them in?”

Their laughter answered for me. But we tried anyway and walked our cute little boots* up to the front of the bar and the bouncers.

[My boots are from the Target Kids section, so they actually were both cute and little. Thank you, Cat & Jack.]

Before the bouncers, I had to pass through a metal detector. Easy enough, right?

[Wrong.]

I placed my keys and phone into a dog bowl (yes, an actual dog bowl) before going through. “Woah! Is that a weapon?” The man checking the dog bowl held up my keys, which had a small, petite, dainty, baby, pepper spray.

He was joking, of course, but his volume turned heads. He confiscated my pepper spray, saying I could retrieve it when I left. Embarrassed, I moved on, dog bowl still in hand until he asked,  

“Can I get my dog bowl back?”

I think any piece of pride I had left died as I nodded and handed the bowl back, sputtering something along the lines of: “Oh, yeah—sorry!”

I got back in line, glancing around for my sorority sisters. Considering they faced zero holdups, unlike me, they all got in just fine, disappearing behind the doors of the bar.

Meanwhile, I was about to try and puppy-dog eye my way in. 

I walked up to the bouncer.

“ID?”

“…I left it at home. But I do have pictures of it!” I scrolled through my photos and showed the bouncer photos of my ID.

“We only take physical copies.”

“Wait! I have pictures of my credit card. It’s in my name; you have to be eighteen to own a credit card.”

[Ha. Can’t argue with that logic.]

“No, you don’t.”

[Alright… Maybe you can argue with that logic.]

Knowing I was right, but seeing he was done with my credit card identification, I dealt my final blow.

“I have a picture of my jury duty letter. They can’t call minors for jury duty.”

He once again shut me down. Desperate to make it into Cowboys, but also knowing my place as an 18-year-old girl wearing children’s boots and a puffy-sleeved purple dress at a bar, I gave up.

“Oh, yeah. I understand.” I nodded and slinked back against the wall of the bar.

As I was ready to accept defeat and drive home, I heard a familiar voice. “You have a picture of this jury duty letter?”

I turned around and connected the face to the voice—it was Dog Bowl.

“Yes, yes! I do!”

I showed him the photo, complete with my unimpressed face holding the summons. He inspected it theatrically, zooming in and out, comparing it with my ID.

I spilled into an internal monologue.

Finally, he handed me my phone. “You’re good to go in.”

Thrilled, I headed to pay my $10 cover in cash. But guess what? Cowboys only took physical cards, and mine was back in my purse—with my ID. Defeated, I texted my friends for help. 

Brooke saved the day, paying my cover. We finally headed to the dance floor. The two of us were enthusiastic… even if not talented. After dancing for five or so songs, I rewarded myself with a Shirley Temple.

We joined some friends at a high-top table near the TVs, which were airing UCF’s inevitable loss to Iowa State. Two guys kept glancing our way. Finally, one approached me.

“My pal thinks you’re pretty and wants to talk to you.” I glanced at his friend, who shyly looked away.

“Sure, send him over.” I laughed as he brought his friend to my table, where I was sitting with my friend Liv.

Liv has this unique sort of demeanor to her. By that, I mean her face shows literally every single thought the moment she thinks it.

I think it’s an actor thing. The two of us are recovering theater kids, meaning the two of us are used to our faces conveying everything that goes unspoken for an audience.

It’s a hard habit to break.

And as my cowboy-booted bachelor strode over, her face turned to one that was subconsciously saying “Girl, run.”

Tristan introduced himself awkwardly, leading with, “Your other friends seemed too intimidating to talk to, but you didn’t.” 

[Thanks, dude.]

We chatted briefly—he was from Texas, pursuing boat building, and oddly invited me to join him on his next trip home!

[Not weird at all.]

Thankfully, Liv interrupted, pulling me to do a totally real “partner dance” that wasn’t happening. Grateful for the escape, I avoided the guy for the rest of the night, my friends forming a protective barrier.

As we left, his friend intercepted me again, asking for my number on Tristan’s behalf. I offered my Snapchat instead and bolted.

On my way out, I reclaimed my pepper spray and Dog Bowl called after me with one final quip.

“Want to take a dog bowl with you?” 

• college
• cowboys
• line dancing
• party princess
• UCF