Welcome to the final few days of childfree week. Annually my
mother and son run away together. My husband and I celebrate by doing things
that we usually cannot; like late dinners at adult only restaurants and
sleeping in. Each year I have a brain surge idea; something special that we must
do. This year it was dancing. I love to dance but these days we get to do it
only at weddings and fundraisers. The 2012 goal was to go to a club and dance
like we did before parenthood.
After considering my proposal Mister Man proudly announced that
he had found the perfect place. He boasted that it wasn’t easy finding a spot
that got going before 11:00 pm. What? 11:00 pm? We’re not that old. We could afford to broaden our search.
Within 24 hours we learned that hot spot number one rolled up it’s
carpet during August and transported the fun to The Hamptons. Shimmy joint
number two was under renovation. The third choice responded to our table
reservation with a $1,000 surcharge plus required bottle purchases. We may not
get out much but we can spot a hustle. No worries. Nothing would prevent the fun. We were determined to paint the town red.
Last night a theatrically made up me slipped into slim white jeans,
a pink, sparkly, sleeveless top and four inch platform sandals. You couldn’t
tell me anything; probably because my huge earrings and cuff bracelet absorbed
all sound. Things were going amazingly well. We dined al fresco at a hip Asian fusion
restaurant listening to ‘80s music. If I closed my eyes I could recreate
hanging out in my youth, except back then I couldn’t afford such an upscale
place.
The first thing that I noticed was that I’d forgotten that I own cute little dresses like the ones that were sashaying around us. I
never considered wearing those. They’re reserved for vacations. It hadn’t occurred
to me to sport one out on the town in NYC. Guess I’m older than I recognized.
Good thing I wasn’t cruising for a date. No. Really. Good thing he was there
because I was too vain to bring my reading glasses. Hubby had to read the menu
to me.
The
fun kept building. Before we finished dinner I was reminded why my mother would
scold adolescent Kamyra with, “There’s no dancing at the dining table.” One of
my fav 80s tunes came on and my geriatric muscles ticked. I couldn’t resist
chair dancing. My chopsticks gracefully banged against a sinfully delicious kier
royal. The flute shattered onto the ground and the sweetness sprayed wide.
Again, no problem. I’m too old to be embarrassed.
My
date hoped the accident was evidence that I was tipsy enough for him to take
advantage of me. If so he could take me home and stop closing his eyes. Two
feet directly in front of him was the rear view of someone’s daughter in a wind
blown mini skirt. That tiny thing wouldn’t stay down. Poor Papi. I had other
ideas. After dinner and my replacement drink we profiled on the rooftop lounge
before hitting the dance floor. Well . . . attempting to hit the dance floor.
Dancing hadn’t begun at the hotel where we were being so very
cool. Since we were hanging in a neighborhood full of nightlife Mister and I cased
a few dance clubs for music and scene. Things weren't looking promising. We failed to find the right combination.
Plus I was afraid of bumping into our peers’ young adult children. I think I
saw one. The reality was that we were too old to chase a party. I seldom did
that 20 years ago. There was no need to begin at this stage of life. Instead we
went home and made our own fun.
As I type this post the washing machine is serenading me. It holds a load
of whites. Trying to rid my on-trend white jeans of the red kier royal splash
stain and the pink dye from my cute top.
Last night was enough for these old folks. We’re recuperating
today with a relaxing afternoon on City Island. That’s more our speed.
