Dance

I went to Taipei's answer to Coyote Ugly the other night.

Sadly no Tyra Banks to be found but thankfully no Leanne Rimes either. Just people, like me. I was reminded of my glorious youth when I was a crazy, happy, little dance nymph living with an anything-goes attitude exemplified by my dance motto: "If there is a stage, I'm on it".

Encouraged by free champange for ladies before 12, I felt inclined to make use of the bar top and purpose-built railings. But after only a minute and a half of shimmying to the overplayed but much loved Groove Amada classic Super Stylin I found myself already out of breath. My god, I thought as realization hit, it really was a lifetime ago. Women my age wear these damn heels because we cannot dance anymore, excusing ourselves from exertion beyond the walk to the loo and back!

Was it fortunate that at least in the grand scheme of things, I was not the only person on that bar top? I guess so. But it was unfortunate that a few moments later a salaciously dressed woman chose her piece of bar top real estate right next to me. Gold strappy heels, denim hot pants, bikini top. She hid her identity behind large bling sunglasses. Bless.

The men in the bar of course gaped at her like frozen apes, looking like a succession of eggs were about to pop out of their oral orifices.

I'm not jealous. Hell no. There was nothing in her appearance or moves that made me wish I had her aura of cheap stripper nasty. The point is, have I become an embittered old woman, cursing the rightful place nubile babes have in the dance pecking order?

Nah.

I've always loved to dance and glad to find I still do. And this experience has also racked up my Countries of Bar and/or Table Top Dancing count to 8: Australia, Singapore, UK, France, Germany, Bosnia, Canada, Taiwan.

I've seen Greek mothers and grandmothers getting up on table tops to dance at hen's nights and weddings. I feel a kinship towards them right now.

Opa!