I did something last night that I haven’t done in ages: I went to a dance party. My friend Nancy talked me into it; though honestly, she didn’t have to do too much arm-twisting when she told me it would be 50s and 60s music. I was so worried my feet would hurt that I wore sneakers that Sassafrass had grown tired of, with jeans and a $7 t-shirt from Target. I looked like a 15 year old – a 15 year old wearing some very nice jewelry, that is.
I wasn’t too nervous until Nancy said to me, “Are you nervous?” Then I thought, who am I kidding? I’m 50. I don’t know how to do any of these dances. Eek! Meanwhile, Nancy was off in the bathroom changing into a flippy skirt and her dancing shoes.
Then we got to the dance and here’s what it looked like:
All I could think was, I said yes to Nancy and she will kill me if I bail. I have to stay here at least an hour. So I stood up straight and smiled. Then someone asked me to dance. And someone else, and someone else. This is New York, so there were all manners of kooks and weirdos of both genders, but there were lovely people, too. And what I really liked about it was that there was no hidden agenda – it was all about the dancing. It felt so great to get out of my own head and move my body to something other than an elliptical trainer. Every time I looked at Nancy she was swinging away, with her eyes closed in total bliss.
Now I’m on the mailing list. And guess what? There’s a Motown dance in a few weeks. Hopefully my sore tootsies will recover by then.