Sweatin To the Oldies

I have been a lazy bum for the past 11 days. A bump on a log gets more physical activity than I have been getting lately. I have no motivation to let Billy Blanks torture me via Tae Bo Boot Camp and Carmen Electra's Strip Aerobics just isn't moving me. But, if I want to look more like Flipper and less like Shamu on Miami Beach next week, then I've got to do something. So tonight, I hopped in my car, and headed downtown for 80s night at The Drink to dance off all 800 calories I consumed today (this Passover diet is killing me. Why does yogurt contain yeast?) Yes, I have to work in the morning. Yes, cigarette smoke will cling to ever fiber of my being and I'll be too tired to scrub it out when I get home. But sleep deprivation and stage I lung cancer are worth it, just to spend the evening in the company of my dancing friends.
The minute I enter The Drink's smoky confines and hear "You Spin Me Round" blaring from the speakers, I know I am where I belong. It's almost midnight, but the dance floor is sparsely populated. Most patrons are still at the bar. The geeky skater boy with the buzz cut and glasses is jerking his lean body in time to the synthesizers. He won't leave the dancefloor the entire night and will dance all by himself until the lights flicker on. Standing at a nearby table is the 6'3" drag queen in the making who I see whenever I come out. He sashays through the club, looking less than comfortable in his hot pants and hooker boots. For some reason he feels the need to caress my midsection whenever we cross paths.
I immediately recognize a familiar face. I don't know her, but I know she sets the soundtrack to my Sunday nights at Billy's. Tonight I look at her, really look at her, for the first time. Her smile says her life is anything but mundance. She looks fascinating, like she has the most fabulous friends, endless dates, and little free time. She stands out in her little black dress with a neckline that takes a dangerous plunge. Her high heel sandals are the perfect complement. Raven hair contrasts her pale porcelain skin. I wonder if it's natural. Regardless, she is striking, even though her perfect features don't quite equal pretty.
The music changes. Everyone loves Duran Duran. I'm hungry like the wolf all over the dancefloor. Less than two feet from me is a man using his beer bottle like a mic. Our eyes meet and we serenade each other. This is our routine whenever we see one another. I keep trying to figure out if he's gay. He doesn't prance like the other gay guys, but he dances too well to be straight. His t-shirt is too tight to be straight, the jeans too loose to be gay. I decide he must be bi, then try to fend off the drunken Justin Timberlake lookalike who humps my left leg. He tries to palm my ass and for a split second I wonder if he's trying to pick my pocket. Oh well. Michael Jackson is playing and I'm a PYT.
Suddenly, an angel appears in the form of my favorite dance partner. Long, dark, and lanky his hips are liquid and our song is playing. I spin, I twist, I shimmy. Wham is everything I want. The heat is now palpable and I can feel every stitch of denim against my hips and thighs. I need to rest. I leave him to dance with her. She is blonde and slinky with an incredible ability to channel 1985 trends into 2006 style. Their limbs intertwine, but never tangle. She sways with him then away from him in perfect synchronicity. I wonder if they are choreographed.
My heart slows, my body cools, and I'm back in the middle of everything. Couples rotate around me. Boy and girl, boy and boy, girl and girl, they swap pairs on every beat. I'm dancing with myself, hands in the air, smile on my face, without a care in the world. This is the best calorie burn ever.