I’m determined to start posting more regularly on this blog, and I think in order to do that, I have to let go of some of my self-imposed expectations and allow myself to just write.
See, back in the day, when I had more time, I would write these lengthy creative posts, with pictures and links and things.
Because I no longer have the time or the energy for those, I find myself not writing at all.
And that’s just a shame.
So, I’m letting go, and I’m just going to write. I’m going back to basics and back to when I used this blog to write my random thoughts and feelings of my daily life.
Today, I’m going to tell you about last Saturday night, because it was both a fun night, and also, unfortunately, a bit of a reality check.
I went out with my cousin M&M and her friend, who is now also my friend, who, for my own reasons, will be known as Match.
Anyway, Match and I kicked off the evening at a “not-tupperware” party. If you have no idea what I’m talking about, that’s just as well, but for those of you who have a slight suspicion, yes, it was one of THOSE. M&M couldn’t join us, so Match and I went, and had a pretty decent time. Really, it was pretty hilarious.
After said party, we headed over to M&M’s for drinks and some munchies, before really heading out for a night of dancing and fun at a local bar/club.
Now, my days of nightclubs are far far behind me. When I was in my 20’s every weekend was a chance to spend 2 to 3 nights dancing the night away. In my heyday, there was rarely a club night that didn’t include a little drinking, a lot of dancing, and always some flirting and phone number exchange.
Out on a , I was full of confidence, knowing I CAN dance, and that confidence without fail always translated into male attention.
In those days, I knew I had IT, and IT always resulted in plenty of dates. I was never lacking for attention from the opposite sex. It was so easy then.
But things have changed. I spent the better part of my late 20’s and early 30’s in a sort of “holding pattern”. Single, content, hardly ever meeting any eligible men, never mind dating, and not exactly noticing or caring all that much about it.
Suddenly, at 35, I find myself once again wanting to date. I would love to meet a nice guy who can create a spark of chemistry between us, make me laugh, and arouse my intellect.
In the meantime, I wouldn’t mind a simple flirtation or two.
So, Saturday night, armed with the knowledge that my leaner, fitter body looked pretty hot in my skinny jeans, high heels and form fitting, but not sleazy tank top, I headed out on the dance floor. My domain. The one place I have always felt confident, and irresistible.
And I can still dance. My confidence in that aspect has never wavered. But it was all different.
I was surrounded by kids in their late teens and early 20’s. Surrounded by little girls in littler dresses, flaunting ALL their stuff with zero inhibitions, performing moves on the dance floor which should be reserved for the stripper pole.
And although I remember being wild in my heyday, I’m pretty sure I drew the line somewhere much tamer than this.
And I found myself beating back the motherly instinct to tell these girls to put some clothes on and stop acting like Jersey Shore Snookie. And I’m not even a mother.
And I realized that IT no longer belongs to me. And the truth of it all is, I’m pretty sure I no longer want IT anyway. Not if that’s the way to get IT now…
Don’t get me wrong, I had fun. The three of us danced the night away, and the people watching alone was worth the price of admission.
But I felt old and out of place, and sure I didn’t belong.
Even the adorable 29 year old boy who argued I didn’t look a day over 25 (bless his heart) couldn’t take away the feeling that as much as I love to dance, this is so no longer my scene.
And even the adorable 29 year old boy wasn’t interested in my phone number.
Because as much fun as we had flirting and joking for a few minutes, I was no competition for the barely dressed 23 year olds he was dancing with later on that evening. Nor did I want to be.
I’ve had my turn, it’s time, perhaps, to pass that torch.
And yet…a part of me grieves for that younger me, out on the dance floor, having the time of her life. Never suspecting that one day, many years later, she’d have to let go, grow up, and put away her dancing shoes.