Dance, Dance, Dance


So, it’s on.  I have decided to throw myself a dance party.  For the last three weeks, maybe four, I have said every weekend, damn, I have got to go dancing.  It has been too long.

Last time I was dancing?

Burning Man.

Not good, this lady needs to get her groove on.

In the spirit of taking care of myself and not waiting to be asked out on a date, and no, there is nothing to report, date was cancelled today–he was called into work.  Yes, I was bummed, but then I had a moment of, hey!  I can get my party frock on.  I had been wondering when I was going to be able to brave the crowds and the shopping and do the deal.

So, after taking care of business in the Mission, I went down town.  It was crazy pants.

One, I totally forgot it was Santa Con.  Oops.  Fortunately they were trying to set a record for the most naked santas in one spot–@ 3 p.m. today–and I was nowhere near that.

Some things just should not be seen. I haven’t believed in santa for a very long time.  That bubble was burst when I had just turned six and my sister was four.  My poor mother took us aside and told us that there was no Santa.  I had my suspicions by that point but I was still in that magic place of having the ability to suspend disbelief if I chose to.

My sister was devastated.  I think she still bears my mother malice over that heart-break.

We were living with my Aunt Teresa and my cousin Channing.  Teresa had just gone through a really nasty divorce with my Uncle Bill and they were playing who loves their daughter more.  Channing was inundated with Christmas presents from both sides of her family.  Her mother, her father, her grandparents on both sides, and Santa all were colluding to make sure that Channing was the most adored, loved, cherished child ever to walk the earth.

Note to future parents everywhere–dont’ do this!  That child became insufferable in about six minutes.

My mom was poor–hence the living with our Aunt and her daughter–and could not compete with the Christmas buy-a-thon that was happening.  She did not want my sister and I to believe that Santa loved us less than Channing as Channing was getting the whole hog, dipped in chocolate and sprinkled with powdered candy canes.  I don’t remember what I got that year.

I do however, distinctly recall what Channing go–a lot of Barbies, a Barbie Dream House, a train set, a lot of clothes (I was very envious of her array of slippers, I did not get slippers until I bought them for myself at the ripe old age of 35), a make up kit, a fucking polaroid camera (which she used to take naked pictures of her Barbies–little girl got warped somewhere), a Lite Bright (fuck, I still want a Lite Bright), a bunch of candy, I mean a shit ton, plus whatever assorted garbage and junk was in her stocking.

Cicely, my sister, and I did not get stockings either.

Suffice to say, Santa is not a big guy on my list of holiday cheer, and the idea of seeing a bunch of naked ones sounds like trauma to me.

Fortunately for me, I missed it.  I did not however miss the extraordinary shopping crowds downtown.  Holy shit.  Where do they all come from?  I will say this, it was sweet to hear people caroling in the Powell Street BART station instead of panhandlers harassing me.

I am grateful that I also had a very specific agenda and knew where I wanted to go and what I wanted to check.  I hit GAP–not to buy anything, but because they have a public restroom tucked away in the store that is easily the cleanest and most accessible bathroom in that area.  I also had been a wise owl and I had eaten in the Mission instead of trying to find sustenance in the melee that was the shopping pandemonium.

Then on to Anthropologie.  But there was nothing there.  I was in and out in five minutes.  I cut in and out of the heavy foot traffic and hit H & M.  But nada  and it was a mad house of Japanese and European tourists.  I fled and went to Macy’s which is where I found her.

My party frock.

She is beautiful!  And exactly what I was looking for.  I had to dig around a bit before finding just the right dress.  I can’t wear certain colors, and not for the reasons you may be thinking, but because certain colors clash with my tattoos!  I have beautiful ink, I do, I do, but some patterns and colors don’t look right on me.  I had my eye on a gorgeous Giambasti Valli dress that he did for Macy’s Impulse line.  And it looked great on me, but the reds of the flowers in the print did not quite sit right and no matter how many times I turned around to admire the way it fell and moved, I could not quite get past the clash.

I was beginning to feel a little overwhelmed and I had a purpose, but thought, well, maybe it’s not going to happen, when there it was in the seasonal party section–A line, full skirt, cream with boned bodice, over layed with black lace, a sweet heart neck line and black spaghetti straps.  I can twirl in it and the skirt floofs out (yes floof is a word.  Duh.) and I felt pretty and romantic and festive.

I came out to look in the three-way mirror and a mom with her daughter sighed and said, “Oh it fits so well on you!  Is it for a special occasion?”

I smiled and said, my birthday is next week.

And she said, “you really have to get it, it’s just perfect, the fit is perfect”.

It is.  I adore it.

And it will be a perfect going dancing dress and a perfect holiday dress and I let myself splurge.

My birthday only happens once a year and this will be last year in my 30s.  It has been a tumultuous decade.  I want to celebrate my life this year.

I will dance and twirl and spin and I will be a my own version of a princess, an urban princess with dragon tattoos and hipster glasses.

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