Bust It Like Bananarama

I have always been quite partial to a girls’ night out. And by girl’s night out, I don’t mean a quiet dinner at a local café followed by a romcom and a few giggles. Nope… I’m talking about a pin your ears back, pull on your party pants, strap on a stiletto and dust off your dance moves circa 1995 kind of night. Granted, such nights are about as spontaneous as a flash mob and require weeks of military style planning to pull off

  1. Someone to care for small kids (preferably not a babysitter with whom you need to make coherent conversation at 2am),
  2. An embargo on all parties/gatherings for older kids (murphy’s law … that will be the night your kid experiments with vodka shots and you don’t want to be that mum who is too pissed to collect her pissed kid)
  3. Outsource all kid related sports/activities for following day
  4. Organise an awesome outfit … (Usually channeling the hot mutton with a cool edge/pulled together at the last minute vibe)
  5. Lock in a date (at least 4 weeks in advance) and start workshopping a suitable venue … ideally somewhere that you can eat first that then slowly morphs into a club that plays 90’s music (with words), has very low lighting, emergency seating and age appropriate patrons (the venue version of a unicorn)

If you can tick off all 5 of these then run … fast, towards waiting cab and under no circumstances make eye contact with the enemy, look back or answer your phone. It’s at about this point, as you draw breath and you start slow blinking to the dulcet tones of Smooth FM in the back seat of the cab that a serious case ‘cold feet’ can kick in. DO NOT be tempted to concoct some lame ass excuse and be seduced by the lure of your PJ’s, ugg boots and Netflix … however tempting that may sound. The stars have aligned and it’s safe to say that no one looks back on their life and remembers the nights they had plenty of sleep. I favour starting the night with a few strong glasses of personality (ideally in the form of an espresso martini), but be warned … It’s easy to be seduced by your newfound sense of freedom and in your overexcitement, forget that secret pact you made with yourself to ‘knit one pearl one.’ An hour or so in and I am usually ‘loving myself  (and everyone else) sick.’ It’s right about now that I surrender to the beat … the hips start to go … the words come streaming back and I start channelling my inner Chantoozie. I’m owning that dam dance floor … burning it up one massive move at a time. One alarming observation I’ve made recently is that my “style” of dancing no longer seems to be in “vogue” (as Madonna would say). I’m an advocate of theatrical arm movements, lots of booty shaking, the odd spin with the occasional, strategic “bend and snap” thrown in for good measure. I have become aware however; that many of the younger patrons seem to put far less effort into their dance moves. In fact, I’d go so far as to say that their objective seems to be to keep their feet stuck to one spot, perform very subtle moves with their upper body and under no circumstances smile or mouth the words (of which to be fair there are sadly few). If only they knew how liberating it feels to let loose … surrender to the music and bust some moves like Bananrama.

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