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CHAPTER FROM GOOD INTENTIONS GONE BAD!
Saturday Night Fervour Saturday Night Fervour Long before that torrid tango between Richard Gere and Jennifer Lopez in Shall We Dance? or before the television hit, Dancing with the Stars, local seniors have kicked up their heels on Saturday nights. Live bands play favourites for members like me who grew up with Dick Clark’s American Bandstand. It’s a night out and good exercise that offers the possibility to also meet a special someone. Newcomers could use some tips, however. Arrive early because the seat-saving begins long before the lights dim or the band strikes its first chord. Women prefer to perch at table ends, next to the dancing, where ankle bracelets can grab the attention of the fox-trotting dudes. These dudes generally hug seats along the walls from where they can lean back to scout for new gals who might make it worth their while to actually dance. The wall also protects them from surprise approaches. A few goodhearted gentlemen regularly try to cha-cha with mid-row ladies, but these gents have a daunting task because there are so many more women than men. If you don’t want to warm a seat all night, ladies, you need some tips. First, come dressed to the nines. Flowing chiffon, glitter and frills should be fashion choices, unless you are tucked and toned enough to look good in leopard leotards. Do your hair, manicure your nails, and spend enough time on your makeup to take off ten years. When you get to the dance, showcase your spunk and sparkling wit so the wall-huggers will understand that you could spread a thick layer of energy and zest for life upon a partner’s morning toast — if you had a partner. Smile broadly and laugh loud and long at senseless snippets to highlight your fun-loving nature. Make frequent circuitous walkabouts on the pretext of washroom or bar calls or to share some cleverness with that guy who perchance glanced your way. Get over your notion about men doing the asking and drag those wall-huggers onto the dance floor! And never pass up a mixer, ladies, because it’s a dance guarantee. Men and women form lines at opposite sides of the hall, and when your line works its way to the stage centre, pair up with the man. Most of the gents enjoy mixers because they don’t have to worry about rejection if they ask for the dance. Neither must they fear that some woman will exaggerate their level of interest because they ask. Furthermore, during that mixer, they can dance without having to make conversation. These gents two-step each gal in turn to the back of her line, then go for the next. Women get about one round to the fellows’ five, and that exertion generally finishes the men. Men, if you perspire heavily, change into dry shirts between sets! Use mouthwash and get your teeth fixed! Try not to spit when questions compel you to speak! Give decisive dance leads! Remark on your partner’s grace and beauty while you escort her back to her seat. And for crying out loud, try to remember her name! For the most part, older dancers are the envy of the younger set for their mastery of the moves. Several classical ballroom couples could do exquisite justice to the entire floor area. Some who return for occasional open dances are long paired and practiced. When Dale dips Della during a rumba, for instance, her foot rises to a hesitation point somewhere near his shoulder, and after a few more long strides, the couple sets up for another ballroom pose. Other couples are practicing to be paired. Leroy and Lucy hold onto each other’s butts when they dance. Another couple, known collectively as Leather Britches, know only the twist, and everyone is a bit fed up with constant lashings from their tasseled backsides. The Ever-Ready-Battery pair double-tempo, literally running around the floor’s perimetre, and they don’t even rest between selections. Understand that singles’ dances attract a disproportion of oddballs who will never find partners. Kentucky Woman gets wound up and often go-goes herself onto the stage, where she flails and flings while the musicians protect their instruments and carry on as best they can. The Kook was her exhibitionist male counterpart who did slow-motion tai-chi-like gyrations in solo performances. He was said to have been some kind of missionary who has since moved to Thailand to convert little boys. Betty Boop still wears the crimped hairstyle that made her mother popular in the Thirties while another woman regularly wears runners with her stiffly crinolined prom gown. Mood-Altered Maude stares blankly into space, often unresponsive to her own name and we wonder how she even finds her way to these dances. Like the cartoon character Foghorn Leghorn, Charlie’s jerking dance movements are more rooster than human, and like Foghorn’s adoring flock of laying hens, seat-sore ladies also welcome opportunities to match Charlie’s chicken strut. Hugs squeezes partners so tightly they can hardly breathe, then brags to his buddies, “You can tell that she’s crazy about me because she dances real close.” Swivel Hips must have learned his moves from a dirty dancing movie, and perhaps because of those suggestive hip thrusts, he’s a popular jive partner. “The fellows never forget my name,” brags Miss Piggy as she adjusts her spaghetti straps, tosses her hair seductively and fishes for compliments: “Do you think that is because I am beautiful?” Then she giggles “Oops!” like her question was a slip of the tongue, which everyone knows it wasn’t. Mrs. Tight Girdle is pinched so uncomfortably that she can barely put one foot in front of the other when she minces across the room to snatch an unwary male. Too late, the targeted gent ducks to focus upon his shoelaces, hoping she’ll move on. She prods him with her stilettos until he is forced to look up to her mesh stockings, then her mini skirt and finally the whole of her bulk, which mushrooms upward and outward from those bound hips. That girdle restricts her movements so she can only rock in place on the dance floor anyway, but this gives her more opportunity to coo the invitation for which she has gained considerable notoriety: “Would you like to taste my homemade wine?” By the way, I’m that sour-faced sister with the notepad in the centre section who couldn’t even snag a polka partner — which is why I have the time and temper to pen this exposé. All glamour pretenses are doused when the lights come on at 11:00 p.m. Suddenly conscious of sweat-streaked mascara and flopped hairdos in the harsh glare, we women groan. After lunch and prize draws, the crowd thins — except for those few couples who discovered romance somewhere between “Rock Around the Clock” and “Help Me Make It Through the Night.” These will dance into the wee hours. The rest of us hope it will be our turn next week.
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