Becky Bond Writes
Dance 'Til You Drop
My View - Wednesday 8th January 2020
This decade I’m going to do more dancing. Nothing makes me happier than swinging my sweaty pants on a parquet floor. Any music will do, just as long as it’s upbeat and doesn’t involve too much screechy guitar. I can quite happily segue from Slim Shady to Supertramp or even Shakin’ Stevens, but only if I don’t have to remember specific moves. I’m more freestyle. Or as my daughters would say, no style.
Growing up, my mum tried to nurture this need for movement, signing me up for all kinds of classes. Ballet lasted about six weeks, it being too slow and rigid. I loved Stage 84 but was always in the wings when it came to tap or jazz because the discipline of doing the same moves in the same order to the same song soon grew stale. My favourite bit was the aerobic warm-up at the beginning.
I gave line-dancing a shot too, with real cowboys in Tennessee. I lived there for a couple of years in the early 90s and would often end up in The Oasis bar doing the Horseshoe Shuffle after pitcher of beer. They were always so welcoming but that could have been because I told them I’d been to the same school as princess Diana and therefore had royal connections. A lie I still feel a teensy bit bad about.
I’ve thrown shapes in a teepee, strummed air guitar in a rugby club, grooved my way on stage in a village hall and skidded around the kitchen in my PJs many times. I always make sure the blinds are down in the kitchen, though. I look erratic enough when you can hear the music, so to witness a scene like that in silence could leave the neighbours fearing for my mental health.
When I’m going out, my whole ensemble is based on the probability of a dance-floor. If I’m braving a dress, I literally have to put my arms in the air and jump up and down in front of the bedroom mirror to check the gusset part of my tights won’t be visible during YMCA. I quickly learned a thong throws up its own issues in terms of chafing, so it’s always got to be a full knicker. Never tango in a tanga brief.
Paramount for any party is footwear. A night can easily be ruined by a badly thought-through heel. At best, you’ll end up with blisters, at worst you could find yourself barefoot and harpooned in the cartilaginous joint by someone else’s stiletto. At my wedding, I planned three options - heels for the aisle, pumps for the disco and sparkly slippers for last orders.
Yes, I’m still married. And it would seem I chose the right in-laws too. At seventy-something, they love nothing more on a rainy day than to slip into some joggers, pop a cassette in the hi-fi and dance the drizzle away in their lounge. Now that’s my type of aging. Dance ‘til you drop.
