We can dance if we want to 0
Once in a while I venture out of my zip code. Tonight was one part music – The Untouchables – and one part men, because when you leave West Hollywood it is like a field trip into straight-man territory. That means lipstick and heels for me.
My girlfriend and I made it past the bouncer and discovered there were two opening bands, not one. Thankfully, we found a booth we could sit in. You know you are getting old when you panic that you won’t be able to stand for the headliner. With a waitress and a comfortable seat, I was ready for a fun night of music and people watching.
There were couples and dressed-down, beachy singles, but most noticeable were age-appropriate men (+/- 10 years). We watched one man help his very drunk date up the stairs beside us. About five minutes later, she staggered out and he walked her to the door. As he walked back up the stairs, he looked at me and came back down and leaned over the table to talk to me. I assumed he wanted to know if the seat beside me was open. After saying “I’m sorry, I can’t hear you” three times, I realized he was actually saying, “would you like to dance?”
I was stunned and automatically said no thank you mainly because I didn’t have the right shoes on. It also gave me time to reflect and come to the conclusion I’ve never been asked to dance while I’ve lived in Los Angeles. Never. I realize there are obvious mitigating factors (my height, my age, the venue, etc..) But it is sort of sad, right?
Once I came-to, I was thankful I said no. The guy looked like the type that had a window-less white kiddy snatcher van and only got girls to go home with him by using roofies. As my girlfriend said, “You have to be more careful now that you have the blonde highlights.”
As long as I continue to wear the wrong shoes, I think I’ll be safe.