Dancing like it's 1978

The other week I went dancing. It was mostly fun, but there was something off.

I got there before anyone else was really dancing, so I ordered a cola product before hitting the dance floor.

The DJ is always welcoming, and he actually remembered my name this time around—of which I am in awe as I can only remember his name because it’s lit up in neon pink at the DJ booth every time I go to one of his shows.

I danced and danced, and slowly the dance floor filled up.

The university students are back in town, so there was more of a twenty-something presence in the room. This was evidenced by the GenZ habit of five or six (mostly) guys circling up and dancing in a ring. I’m not sure if it was them or The Women Who Go Whoooo who spilled their drinks on the dance floor.

It wasn’t all circle dancing and floor lubrication; there were plenty of couples dancing together, too.

A sped-up version of “Pon De Replay” came on and I smiled because I had been thinking the day before how much fun it would be to dance to the words “shake it ’til the moon becomes the sun.”

I danced and danced. It was a few days before the full moon, so I did a little bit of dancing down the moon, but for whatever reason, it wasn’t a numinous moment.

Maybe it was the oddly disturbing, gay-men-in-prison movie clip playing at one point in between the much more fun clips from “Jeffry,” “Xanadu,” “Flash Gordon,” and the YMCA sequence from the Village People movie, “Can’t Stop the Music.”

I danced and danced, and fixed my gaze on the needles of green and purple light bouncing from the disco ball.

Maybe it was the dude who would suddenly move his upper back in exaggerated motions as if he were dancing like Doctor Strange at Woodstock while he walked past me to the restroom. Maybe it was flirtation; imitation is the sincerest form of flattery.

Maybe it was the photographer connected with the event, who kept on stepping in front of me to take pictures of the folks dancing next to me, or the folks dancing inside the cage prop, or people placing bills into a Go-Go Guy’s underwear.

Maybe I didn’t dress up in enough leopard print and should have found more faux fur than the leopard print scarf I wore as a sash.

At least I probably won’t have to explain to anyone why there’s pictures on the Internet of me dancing at a club filled with shirtless (and in some cases, pantsless) men.

I danced and danced. During a break I complemented a fine looking man’s amethyst-slice pendent.

Maybe it was the realization when looking into the venue’s mirrors that I was easily twice the age of many of the folks on the dance floor. And the most dressed.

I danced and danced and watched the hands and forearms of the Go-Go Guy with the LED poi, which moved with the intricacies of a spinning carnival ride.

Maybe it was the four guys dancing together in a clump, who seemed like friends, and who seemed relaxed with each other.

I danced and danced, and thought about how much fun it would be to dance with Mark if he liked to dance.

I danced and danced… and then I was having a sugar and caffeine crash.

So it was time to leave.

Before the night could descend any further into a middle school dance reenactment.