A wedding reception is full of friends, family and love. But everyone knows the action really takes place on the dance floor. Well, there and in the ladies room. Here is what I’ve learned as a 50-something, quasi-pathetic, party-goer who’s just lookin’ to get her groove back like Stella.
- No matter how much money I spend on awesome heels, I’m barefoot two hours into the reception.
- Newsflash to Lil’ Jon, my quads cannot “Get Low” to the window or the wall
- “YMCA” is a DJ’s dream. Money, every time. Add costumes and it’s a full-out rager.
- Cake. I know it has nothing to do with dancing but… CAKE.
- At some point in the night—ok, a bunch of times—a twenty-something will pity my dance moves.
- I am “Cha-Cha-Slide-Is-My-Signature-Dance” years old.
- Everyone under the age of 60 slow dances exactly like they did in high school. Cling to each other like you’re drowning and sway.
- If a circle forms, run like hell. Nothing good comes from the dance floor circle.
- Ditto #8 for the people train. No one needs PTSD flashbacks to the Bunny Hop.
- Mouthing the words and pointing make me a better dancer. Right? Who’s with me here? Hello?
- I fall more in love with my husband each time he braves the dance floor. I overlook the lack of rhythm, occasional hip check and rampant fist pumps because those smooth moves are all mine.
- The later it gets, the better the chance someone’s going down like Ke$ha’s “Timber.”
- The microphone is a weapon people. There should be strict screenings and a waiting period before handing over anything to the general public.
- If I can patent a dance move where I adjust my bra, suck in my stomach and not spill my drink; my work is done.
- The Chicken Dance is the great equalizer. Everyone over the age of 5 looks moronic.
The best part about the dance floor? Everyone is happy. Tomorrow, they may wonder why they have feathers in their tux pocket. Or where they left their shoes. And lament a headache the size of Montana.
But tonight, tonight is magic.
