Yeah, so this past week was one of those weeks… I’d pretty much had it with a lot of things. But, because I’m also pretty darn content with most other areas of my life, I decided it would be best to let off some steam on the dance floor instead of perched up on a bar stool for happy hour. My daughter was also looking for something to do so guess what? We went out. TOGETHER! That’s right. We took our 26 year difference in age to the same freakin’ club. First off, a few words about my daughter and me. We’re as close as two introverts with extroverted tendencies can be. I wasn’t all that nurturing of a mother. I wasn’t the type to get all cuddly. Instead I was more, ‘you gotta toughen up and learn to do for yourself if you want to survive.’ Having a girl-child can do that to you if you yourself were bullied and sexually mishandled growing up. I digress, the deal is we are a LOT alike, and find each other’s company to be most enjoyable. It’s also cool that she’s not, nor has she ever been, embarrassed to be seen with me in public. The prospect of us finally going ‘clubbin’ together put a smile on her face as she was looking forward to being able to say, “No, that’s not my sister, that’s my mom.” We hit the club around eleven last evening. Both of us grinning from ear to ear, swaying to the music, and looking forward to burning up the dance floor. Yeah, here’s where it gets comical. The music swept us onto the dance floor by 11:30. There we were, hyping the crowd and showing each other how we “really get down”. A moment to brag here, she saw where she gets all her moves from as I was running folks off the dance floor with my enthusiasm and skill. No seriously. I really can dance. None of this going on when I’m on the floor:
Anyway, we’d only been dancing for a few minutes when this guy (its always a guy) does the “CHALLENGE” thing – he bops up and does a move at me as if to say, “Bring it”. You have no idea how much I love when they do this. So, I brought it.
Now here’s the irony. I usually go clubbin in four to six-inch, platform heels or wedges. I have NEVER, not once, despite a stumble here or there, EVER fallen off my heels. Last night’s mischief occurred in sneakers. SNEAKERS! As in the flattest shoes I own. What the what, man! How is it in my LONG history of gettin’ on down, that I manage to twist an ankle wearing something that had me no more than a half-inch at best, off the ground?! Is this the Universe telling me I’m too old for that type of thing? That I should hang up my dancing shoes and leave this hippin’ and hoppin’ to the young folks? I sincerely hope not. Because if there’s anything I plan on doing till I physically can’t do it anymore, it’s burning up a dance floor.