Last Sunday, my ears wouldn't stop ringing, my back hurt, my knees hurt, I had an all-day headache, and no amount of napping or OTC medication seemed to help. Am I a candidate for one of those "medical mystery" documentaries? No! I'm a Dancing Queen!
One of my best friends had a birthday on Saturday night, and we welcomed her late 30s with 7 hours of cocktails and shimmying all over a dance floor.
It was a successful night from beginning to end.
First – and I can't remember the last time I did this – I spent over an hour getting ready. I applied record amounts of eyeliner. I had product in my hair. The straightening iron was revived. Flat shoes were nowhere to be seen. I wore my very best bra. As I kissed my family goodbye, my husband said, "You look hot, babe!"
At the first bar, a group of Scottish tourists were wholly unconvinced that my friend and I were in our late 30s. We decided that the tequila must be acting as a preservative, and ordered another round.
At the club (once the so-so band got off the stage), 6 of us taught that dance floor a lesson it won't soon forget. I pulled out some of my old moves – they still worked! – and created a few new ones. We laughed and twirled, and if I had a dime for every time one of us shouted, "OhmygodIloooooovethissong!!" at the top of her lungs, I'd have $37.50.
One by one, people went home. But at 4:30 in the morning when the house lights flashed and the DJ left the decks, my friend, her husband, and I were still standing. My hair had long since stopped behaving and I was no longer as committed to sucking in my gut, but I had made it to the very end of the night.
There's nothing I like more than a quiet night at home with my daughter and husband. But I have to admit, dancing 'til dawn is a rare and precious treat for this hardworking mama.