Dance Hall Days

God, I love to dance. Dancing used to be the highlight of my weekends. It was from the first time I used a fake I.D. to get into the bars in D.C. (to dance, not to drink) through college and beyond, pretty much up until the whole married with children stage, at which point the highlight became more of a semi-annual thing than weekly.

In recent years, it's been nonexistent. But that didn't stop me and a dozen of my friends from going out on Friday night, doing endless lemon drop shooters, and taking over the whole cheezy dance floor with abandon.

Silly boys posturing their way into our swarm were hardly phased when they asked our names ("Mrs. Miller, 37, three kids"), at least to the untrained eye. Sure, when it got late and the 20-something girls that were wearing utterly revealing strips of material over their huge breasts started pole dancing on one another these boys were distracted for a moment. But the allure of Desperate Housewives is alive and kicking! We had stamina. Plus we knew all of the old songs (great screaming rendition of Pour Some Sugar on Me, gals).

The whole thing reminded me that it doesn't require a big road trip to a "more fun" city to go out and enjoy yourself. And I also realized that even if my feet hurt and I was sore all over the next day, dancing is still the best form of exercise out there.
P.S. No, that's not us in the picture. Pinky swear.