Dancing with the Stars!

Rich is an older gentleman I know (when I say "older" I mean his toupee is older than my mom) and for the past few months he has been talking about inviting me to an Italian club he's a member of. Once a month this club holds a dinner and members can invite friends to an evening of dinner and dancing. I was pretty sure Spike wouldn't go for it so I hemmed and hawed about committing, but one day Rich called up and told me that he had reserved our table and how excited he was about us coming. So that was that. An evening with ancient Italians was on the schedule.

Last night we donned our most sensible dancing attire and showed up at 6 p.m. where the party had already been going for an hour. There was a large, intimidating thug at the door who gruffly asked what we wanted. After all, we're anything but geriatric and Italian. We explained we were invited guests and thankfully our host came rushing over to cut short the interrogation. Rich led us into a large hall with a parkay dance floor surrounded by folding tables. Dinner, naturally, was pasta, meatballs and sausage. Good, but not as good as the eye candy in the room. I'm pretty sure we were the youngest people in the room by at least 40 years, judging from the sea of purple hair high-waisted trousers that surrounded us. I had Spike's camera phone and was tempted to go from table to table getting pictures of some of the more outrageous do's and get-ups but fear of Mob retaliation stopped me. I did get a few blurry photos of dancers but unfortunately nothing good enough to share here.

After we finished eating Rich and his other guests started begging to see us dance. It was intimidating since I felt we didn't have much ammo to impress these old-time dancers, but out we went and it was on the dance floor that this crowd was best appreciated. I was amazed to see couples I would otherwise consider spent out there executing snappy tangos and gazing intensely into their lover's eyes. Other couples had probably been ordered by doctors not to walk anymore but they carefully propped themselves against each other and imperceptibly swayed with their last breaths. There were a few men who had snagged younger women and they would stand hunched over and grinning while the younger partners (is 70 younger?) would prance sexy circles around them flinging their skirts every which way.

The "band" was composed of two old men - one in beach attire playing a huge synthesizer and another old gem on the bongos and snare. Ever wonder who makes all that elevator music? These guys. But I found myself loving all the different beats they came up with. There were a myriad of polkas, sambas, tangos and two steps. I've got to say one thing about these people's generation, they know how to dance! Our host lead me out on the floor a few times and taught me the "one-step," and a polka. I wish men my age were as fluent in all the different dance style as the past generations have been. There is something so thrilling about being whisked around a dance floor by a man who knows how to lead. (Spike, I love you, but when was the last time we waltzed?)

Around 7:45 the event began winding down and an excited couple approached us and asked if we would help teach everyone how to dance to "YMCA." What was there to teach? We stood at the front of the dance floor while the band played the lounge version of the 70's favorite. The truly shocking thing was that a lot of these people really didn't know how to make these famous letters and found the entire dance hilarious.

Every little detail, the schmaltzy Italy map placemats, the burly cook in the kitchen sweating over the spaghetti, and the sea of blue eyeshadow and pastel trousers was perfect. It made me wonder - is this what we are in for in 60 years? At what point do you stop evolving with society and hold firm to your fashion and preferences? What age will I be frozen at when I'm 80? Many of these folks seemed stuck in the 70's. If I follow that same mathematical pattern I'll stop evolving sometime around 2030. I really hope that isn't a skinny jeans year.

Despite my earlier trepidation about the evening and fears about not fitting in, we had a lovely time and Rich very enthusiastically told us we'd be welcome back the following month. If all that sausage I ate last night has digested by then, we just might take him up on it. Viva Italia!