It was another wild and crazy Girls Night Out.
True to form, two friends showed up in the same color shirt—pink! And I was wearing a pink shirt, too. We caught up to two more women. Teo was wearing a pink shirt and Sheila was very close with a sort of peach sherbet color shirt. The Pink Shirt Girls!
Once again, plans fumbled forward with good cheer and good nature, and most of us ended up at the Mole's Eye dance lounge in Brattleboro VT where we danced the night away, doin' the boogey-down thang to an amazing band whose name we never quite got, but Teo knew the bass player. (Teo knows EVERYONE, by the way....)
Oh, I just looked up the playlist on the Mole's Eye website. The band was Voodoo.
Toward the end of the evening, Sheila gasped to Karen and I, "You two are AWESOME!" and Karen muttered "And even though I know the subtext is 'for old ladies', I still appreciate it!" She should. Karen is an amazing dancer.
On the ride home we talked excitedly about how much fun we'd had. "I LOVE to dance", Karen mused, "But it didn't seem right to go without my guy. Now I realize how much I've missed it." Our husbands don't care for dancing like we do, so we're learning to just leave them behind occasionally.
We talked about the importance of making time—and room—in our lives for fun. Not just good times with friends and family, or watching a good movie, or even reading a good book--but F-U-N. The physical, exhilarating body stuff that feels purely kid-like, that shouts, "This is me, this is me in my body, and this is me alive in my body and full of joy!"
Like leaping down a waterslide, or bodysurfing at the ocean, or going dancing with your girlfriends.
It's hard when you get older, especially if you are majorly self-conscious person to begin with. It feels like everyone is looking at you and judging. It can be paralyzing. In a culture that idolizes youth and beauty, it can feel devastating.
It's even harder when you've never felt particularly athletic or have little sense of rhythm. You feel like maybe you resemble that proverbial hog on ice, except it's a dance floor.
Except then you hit a certain magical point, and you just don't give a **** anymore.
There's nothing in the world like that feeling.
There was an elderly woman last night on the dance floor. Despite the heat and noise, she was dressed in a long-sleeved sweater, long matronly skirt and sensible shoes, with hair neatly in place. She moved gingerly but enthusiastically with cane firmly in hand, eyes closed, a small smile on her face, swaying gently to the beat.
What struck me was her utter lack of self-consciousness. From time to time a cheer went up from the crowd for her, but I don't think she was even aware of that.
She just wanted to dance.
