I don't feel like dancing...

I think I have lost my ability to dance. I used to be able to throw some pretty impressive moves on the dance floor but lately I’ve lost my sense of rhythm.
I’ve now reverted to, at best, the Primary Seven Shuffle (you know stepping from side to side, clapping in time to the music) or, at worst, the Funky Mammy (dancing with your elbows close to your sides as if holding a young child’s hands).
Part of me has accepted this loss of grace on the dance floor as part of the ageing process and an inevitable consequence of piling on the pounds. But part of me watches in jealous awe as skinny young things shake their groove thang on the dance floor to the latest happening tunes. (As you can tell from my hopeless use of street lingo, I’m not down with the kids.)
Much as I might try, my body just doesn’t move that way anymore. A shake of the hips is more likely to result in a spasm requiring hard core medication rather than a 10 out of 10 from the judges of Strictly Come Dancing.
I used to be a good dancer. Of course when I say good, I mean that I made up for what I lacked in talent with sheer unadulterated enthusiasm. I was perhaps the happiest I have been when I went to salsa classes and spun around the dance floor in a pair of diamonte-studded dance shoes. I felt elegant - which if you know me at all you will know is a rare occurance.
The combination of proper co-ordinated dance steps with flowing scarves and shiny heeled shoes was irresistable to me. I also loved a good boogie on the dances floors of Squires and Earth - but I was definitely more into dancing for the craic rather than to impress anyone. You should have seen my amazing dance routine to ‘I Will Survive’ by Gloria Gaynor.
It was a thing of beauty.
Since I became pregnant (four years ago, doesn’t time fly?) I haven’t really found the urge to put my dancing shoes back on.
The first time I attempted a good boogie was the ‘Journal’ Christmas do of 2004. As I strutted my stuff to ‘The Fairytale of New York’, a certain former editor was heard to remark: “That’s the first time she’s been out since having the wain. Isn’t it?”
Yes, my lack of co-ordination was that impressive.
The second time I managed a good boogie was the ‘Journal’ Christmas do of 2006. I actually really enjoyed myself, and even did that really classy thing of kicking my shoes off towards the end of the night when my feet started to ache so I could lump about in my bare feet.
The next day, however, I suffered. My legs were aching, my sides were sore and my feet had swollen to such a size that the only things I could dare put on them were my oversized slippers from Tesco. And then I had the joyous experience of “the night before” flashbacks. Had I really acted out scenes from Grease and Dirty Dancing with my fellow reporters?
Had I really showed the whole room my long-forgotten salsa moves? Add this to the memory of myself and a certain colleague serenading the taxi driver on the way home with our own particularly unique rendition of ‘The Rose’ and you may see why I vowed never to drink, dance or sing again.
Of course there is something about dancing which gets under my skin. When I went to London recently on my sister’s (aka Bridezilla) hen weekend weekend to see the Dirty Dancing Musical, I felt my legs start to twitch as the dancers took to the stage for their breath-taking dance scenes.
Yes, in the show they do the full final dance (I lost my voice for several days after shouting the “Hey baby” bit a little too loud) and I realised that I was jealous of them.
They could move, they looked good and they were obviously having a great time. I think in that moment I’d have offered up my first-born to have a chance to shine on the stage like that. So when we moved on to a club afterwards I was all set to give ‘Baby’ and ‘Johnny’ a run for their money, but after a large meal and a few drinks I lost my nerve and after a half-hearted attempt I gave up and traipsed back to the hotel for a much more sedate glass of wine and natter with friends.
At least my feet didn’t hurt the next day (well apart from the cuts from running down Drury Lane barefoot in a bid to get to the show on time - but that’s another story.) I’m determined to find my rhythm again, some time, and I’m determined that I’ll do more dancing in the future than just swinging a three year-old around on my hip to the Bob the Builder theme tune.
With Bridezilla’s wedding a mere six weeks away, maybe I’ll be in fine form for the Hokey Cokey at the reception.
I must remember to bring my Tesco Slippers just in case...