a real mother

Scarred for Life

I was in the privacy of my own home. The shades were drawn. It was the middle of the day.  There was no chance of getting caught.

Or so I thought.

In my haste, I overlooked one very important detail – locking the back door.

I don’t know who was more startled. And I’m not sure exactly how much The Boys witnessed before I realized they were standing there. It was a scene no teenager should ever have to see.

The spectacle they observed was so utterly horrifying, so completely embarrassing for all of us that there is not enough therapy available to wipe that look of disgust off their faces.

There I was in my ratty Louisville sweatshirt, mismatched Smart Wool socks and Mom Jeans.  And I was doing a Mid-Life Mom interpretation of Running Man all alone to a windowpane rattling volume of Party Rock Anthem.

I was totally busted – for bustin’ a move.

Admittedly, my Party Rock shuffling lacked the youthful vigor of the dancers in the video or I would have ended up in a neck brace and traction.  So my version looked more like Running Man meets Arthritic Amish Woman. But I didn’t care because I was having a great time with Party Rock in the House as the dudes from LMFAO encouraged me to “shake that.” And I was having so much fun I couldn’t help myself.  But I’m fairly certain the only way that the LMFAO fellas, or anyone else for that matter, wants to see me shake anything is through glasses with Vaseline smeared lenses.

Martha Graham once said dance is all about “discovery, discovery, discovery.” But what I feared I would discover after The Boys observed my spastic efforts at self-expression was the two of them moving out in the middle of the night.

I like to dance.  I’m just a little dance-challenged.

There are bad dancers, like me, but let’s face it – there are some really bad dances out there too. Some would argue that the list begins and ends with The Macarena.  But what about The Hustle and YMCA?  Anyone guilty of wearing Hammer Time parachute pants with the crotch hovering between your ankles and going all U Can’t Touch This in your very own living room?

I thought so.

But even I, The Queen of Bad Dancers, am willing to admit a few of these goofy moves are fun to try in a group setting.  It’s hard to resist rocking the Chicken Dance or Cotton Eye Joe with my feisty granddad at a wedding reception.  And after a couple gin and tonics, I start to think I look pretty good.  At least until I’m forced to watch the video.

There’s one dance (and song for that matter) that should be deemed a crime against humanity – Mullet Ray Cyrus’ Achy Breaky Heart.  In 1993, you couldn’t go into any bar in Kentucky without hearing Billy Ray rhyme “gone” and “phone” just before being stampeded by a herd of Achy Breaky line dancers. It was enough to make you grab one of their Miller Lite bottles and attempt to bludgeon yourself into unconsciousness.

But one dance has always been and always will be beyond reproach – the Hokey Pokey.  Don’t say anything bad about it because I will put my whole self in and use my left foot to kick your butt.

So if my shades are drawn and Party Rock is in the House, don’t come a knockin’.  Because in my living room, I can be a Fly Girl. And Everyday I’m Shufflin’ – in the privacy of my own home.