Sunday, August 22, 2010
In Da Club
This weekend was my good friend Holly's birthday and to celebrate she wanted to have a fun night out on the town with friends. I was excited about going since the extent of my wild nights these days is when I choose to get spicy peppers on my pizza, or if I'm feeling really crazy I might even go for extra cheese. I haven't always been this lame. In my prime I have been known to shake what my mama so graciously gave me while battling on the dance floor with the best of them. So after a great dinner we decided it was time for some dancing and I was primed and ready. I had on my Spanx for minimal jiggle, my most comfortable wedges with arch support, and my game face on. The music was a little louder than I remembered but the base was vibrating and I felt that familiar groove coming back, like riding a bicycle. When I look on the dance floor there is literally a full out dance battle going on. I feel like I have just walked into a scene from "Step Up." I watch as the participants go toe to toe with the latest moves; moves that look vaguely familiar, from a Lady Ga Ga video that I saw once when trying to find Sesame Street perhaps? One dancer catches my eye and eases his way over and starts dancing in front of me, prompting me to start moving too. Suddenly my mind races to think of any move that I know, my feet are moving in an awkward shuffle as I scour my memory to come up with something, but it seems that since having my baby he not only took away my thin waist, but also any rhythm that I once had. It's me against the music but all I manage to pull out is a side to side two-step that is from circa 1994. I notice that it is making me look more like the Church Lady intead of Brittney Spears in her "Slave" video, and my partner starts to ease away politely. Then, just like the Christmas miracle, I remembered my infamous roundhouse hip swirl move that used to knock em dead. I start rolling and popping my hips like my life and dignity depended on it, "Move aside Beyonce, mama's got this one!" I think to myself. After I finish my best diva moves I take a break and head to the bar to get some water. While there I see a guy who was totally checking me out. I figure he saw me on the dance floor and is now about to come over and ask for my number, to which I am going to have to embarrass him while I tell him that 'sorry, I am married, but I appreciate the offer.' Poor bastard. And just as I predicted, he makes his way over. I pretend not to notice him when he comes up beside me and says, "I saw you dancing out there." Yeah, I thought, eat your heart out. Then he continues, "You look just like a teacher. What grade do you teach?" I looked at him with horror and that's when it hit me. I have crossed the threshold of cool and entered the world of Squareville, I might as well have on a mauve embroidered cardigan with low sensible pumps. And so now I will drown the sorrows of my youth in my spicy peppers and extra cheese, at least while I am still young enough not to get heartburn.