When my parents met they were both dancers. My mother taught kids to dance at a studio in Lancaster, Pennsylvania. My father taught adults at a studio in New Jersey. They met at a competition at which my mother was asked to judge and rest as they say, is history. Prior to having kids my parents traveled doing competitions and exhibitions around the U.S. and Europe.
The picture here is of my parents dancing at an exhibition. Doesn’t that look fun??
In south Florida in the late 80’s there was a “Ladies Night” every night of the week except for Friday and Saturdays (there may still be but I have since moved on). This meant that ladies (and I use that term loosely) could get into the club for free and buy a drink for $1. It made buying drinks for the girls incredibly cheap for the guys (even the broke ones), which made the night even cheaper for us! (Have I ever told you how much I love being a girl??)
On Fridays and Saturdays there would be a cover charge to get into the clubs but often, you only really needed to afford the cover and one or two drinks and the rest of the night drinks would find their way to you on their own (alcohol infused serendipity!).
So that is how I met many of the men that I dated in Florida. I met them in the clubs (and the really odd jobs that I worked, but that is for another blog). It has always been my opinion that if a guy can move well vertically, he can probably move well horizontally too. If he has rhythm on the dance floor, chances are that it doesn’t go away in the bedroom and if it does, just throw on a little music to remind him why he’s there. Most of the time this is true but there are always your disappointing anomalies. Unfortunately, one needs to learn that the hard way….or the not hard way, whichever the case may be.
Strangely enough, at the time that I started clubbing, I didn’t even know I could dance. Of course as a kid I enjoyed dancing around in the freedom of my bedroom, (singing into a hairbrush or crying over the heartbreaking words of whatever song) and at the occasional middle school dance; but I had no idea how much I would love it. In Florida I would go out dancing four or five nights a week except Sunday (because God said I needed to rest that day…and there were no good places to go on Sunday). That is, of course, unless I had overdone it the night before in which case I would stay home on the floor of the bathroom swearing I would never drink again until the next day when I would feel better and do it all over again. Most of the clubs were pop/ hip hop clubs (none of that “garage crap” they started playing later) but sometimes we would mix it in with salsa or reggae clubs. The one thing about Florida is it is incredibly rich with culture.
What I still cant believe is how the hell I was able to stay out until 1 or 2 am. night after night and be at work the next morning by 8. I then worked until 5, went home, grabbed dinner (usually pasta because clubbing and clothing were more important than proper nutrition), took a quick nap then got up and got ready to go out around 9 pm. If I met a guy I would be up even later of course (if I slept at all) and go to work and do it all over again the next night. It must have been all of the exercise I got from dancing (and stuff).
This is me to doing a shot called a “blow job” as taken by the cute bartender. Yes, that is a shot glass sticking out of my mouth as you were not allowed to touch the glass with your hands (seriously, who comes up with this shit??).
Those were my favorite pair of jeans. They were ripped in all the right places (of course by me, my scissors were my best designing tool). I couldn’t get away with wearing them in clubs as you had to dress up but I could wear them to other bars like the reggae bars (those guys don’t give a crap, Mon).
Apparently, large eyebrows were in then (think Brooke Shields).
My dad was a huge ladies man (shut up, I know what you are thinking) and he was living in Boca at the time too. I remember one time I was walking out of a grocery store in these jeans and a similar cropped shirt and a guy whistled at me. I turned around angry because I thought it was rude (I know, I know. I asked for the attention and then when I got it I got mad - it’s a girl thing) and realized that it had come from my own father. We were both absolutely horrified when we saw each other and then my dad burst out laughing (he had a very warped sense of humor). I just kept walking, shaking my head the whole way to my car.
Gross, but true.
And proof that Nietzsche’s quote must be pretty accurate.
I had only a week to benefit from the boys buy girls drinks thing. I've been with Jon ever since.
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