I’m hanging up my disco shoes for awhile. Kids, the Lady don’t disco like she used too and the age of my driver’s license is starting to show. I forget sometimes how old I actually am until I meet people who were born right around the time I went to college. Then I usually throw myself at the next moving car. Kidding.
I went to a Halloween dance last night wearing this:
What is this? I couldn’t tell you. What started out as Lady Foxy Brown morphed into the tale of a disco queen living in a small town where no real discotheque exists. But a lady must meet her grove for a proper disco twirl from to time so I spent my evening dub-stepping (I much prefer half-stepping) and learning how to “Crunk” from a 17 year old girl in a Hello Kitty Zombie costume. Turns out, I’m a terrible crunker. I can’t get low and get that booty-to-booby rhythm working. I can only shift my ribcage from side to side and hope for the best. Everything I learned about dancing came from going to late-90’s raves and gay clubs. And letmetellyou, the gays and their lady-friends don’t crunk. We Sashay. We Shante. We dress to excess. We hide when the boy’s clothes come off and we hold our gay-best friend’s hand when their Halloween hangovers begin before sunrise. I wish someone was holding my hand today as I grandma’ed my way to and from errands cursing the evils of those platform shoes. Despite months of Namasting, Yoga and my lower back were no match for an evening of Halloween fun. As I ice my back today I think about how flammable that Afro wig really is. It would give the Late Michael Jackson’s Pepsi-Cola fiasco a run for its carbonation.
Namast-OW! I hope your Halloween was a heck of lot less painful than mine.