I blame Michael Jackson. (Please forgive me.)
With “Don’t Stop ’til you get Enough,” pumping surround sound, we pushed through the doors of the bar and skidded sideways on to the dance floor. I was 25 and my moves were sharp, my face had just the right sexy pout and all the words poured effortlessly off my lips. There may have even been a moonwalk attempted.
But let’s just hold it right there.
I had better start right back at the start of the night.
We were attending quite a formal affair.
A meal had been organised for a group of parents and we were in. We were relatively generous in our supply of BYO wine bottles, knowing of course, that it is common practise to plonk your plonk on the table and share it around. It seems everyone else had the same idea. As the night began with a little chit chat about local tennis clubs, the cost of ballet shoes and the best local family restaurants around, I vowed to myself that I would not stay seated. I absolutely wanted to move around and really chat to some of these people, some of whom I had only fleetingly met previously.
As each of the banquet courses were brought out, I popped a small bite in and continued moseying my way around the people. My wine was topped up and topped up, and I briefly thought “water”, but this sensible thought skittered from my mind as I carried on to the next conversation. Plus dammit, the babysitter was in, my lovely husband was here with me, and I deserved a bit of a fun night out. I did!
The talk got louder as the frivolity mounted. The mood was wonderful; everyone was brimming with laughter and a willingness to really mingle and have some fun. All too soon, the formalities were over, the bill was sorted and people began their farewells.
But not this little black duck.
Oh no. The night was young. I had been to the hairdressers that morning and my hair was flat, dammit. I was wearing my fave red dress and my conversation was oh so witty and no, no, NO to home time.
I followed along a like minded gang and a scout was sent off to locate the source of the music we could hear from the footpath. A ‘come on down’ wave sent a raucous cacophony of laughter in its direction and we couldn’t get down there fast enough.
Enter Michael Jackson, and my consumption of rocket fuel fired me across the tiles. I was 25 again and my feet danced like I had all the next day to rest, only surfacing for a Maccas feed. Ever had that, “I am rocking this dance floor” feeling? Well, I was owning it. My husband swirled his red wine about dangerously as he placed it down and hit the beats beside me. Oh he was hating being on that floor with a gaggle of girls…NOT! As he slid his hand ah la Mr Smooth through his hair with a sly wink, I knew the Brophinator was about to hit town. He busted some of his best and his efforts were rewarded with a shriek of lady wooooooo wooooo’ing, which fuelled him up more.
We were having a blast.
It seemed only 5 minutes had past before the last drinks bell sounded.
No. No. No.
More. More. More.
I was fine. The dancing was burning off the alcohol and really…I was fiiiiine.
Next?
The dingy pub on the corner was still open.
Tally ho, troops.
The line thinned, but a few of us made our way to the lights and again made a bee-line for the corner of the dance floor beside the bar. Handy; or so we thought.
A tray of shots went around. Bad idea. Bad. But they were there and they looked yummy and we were ROCK STARS!
But even the stage lights go down on rock stars and I was a bit puffed. I had messaged the babysitter once to say we would be late and I knew it was time to act my age and be responsible(ish) again.
Homeward bound, and with the beats still bouncing in my brain, we checked the kids, paid the babysitter, slammed a berocca down and slid into bed.
The “MUMMY” siren sounded in my ear as wet kisses hit my face around 6.30am (which on any other day was a bit of a sleep in, but today felt like a slow death). I blinked my eyes tight and tried to fake it, hoping that the Brophinator had slept well and was ready to Dadinate. But just as the excited wail hit its crescendo, we both fell out of the bed and slapped on the ‘grown up’ faces.
It was officially fast declared “Movie Day,” toast was swimming in butter for all, and that couch sure was good.
Till the next time….
