Blown Up

by

I just got back from Blow Up at DNA.

Hells yes.

This was exactly what the doctor ordered.  I will readily admit that when I got done with work and was headed over to the Church and Market area to meet up with my friends and fellows, my spirits were flagging.

It was cold and lonely and the wolves were after me.

But I rallied.

I ran into Krylon, who was looking fabulous, and it turns out he was dancing the floor show at the club.  That cinched it for me.  I sucked it up, got my groceries back home, unloaded my books and notebooks and refreshed the make up.  I put on my 2ManyDJs live Radio Soulwax mix and got my booty shaking.

I changed up my shirt, loose, and white, unbuttoned a little more than I would in the normal light of day, re-tied my shoe laces, rolled my jeans up a little and got ready to rally.

I did not even take a disco nap.  I was at the club by 10:30 p.m.

Perfect.

That used to be terrifically early for me to even deign to show my face at a club, unless I was still there from the night before, ahem, End Up, and I would have promptly left to go get liquored up or coked up or partied up before going back.

The club was not empty, but it was sparse when I got there.  Fine with me.  No line to wait in, bathroom is still clean and has toilet paper, easy access to coat check, and best of all, the whole freaking dance floor for me to break it off on.

And mama broke it the fuck off tonight.

I have not danced this hard in a long, long, long time.

My knees may be what is blown up tomorrow, fyi, but I still can cut a decent rug for an old lady.  I ran into Ryan Debonville, who looked smashing in one of his own gorgeous knit wear designs, remind me to go get one of his infinity scarves before his shit goes all Project Runway and viral and expensive, who was waxing non-poetic about the last time he saw Felix Da House Cat, when he was just a young man of 21.

Ten years ago.

Hell, child, you are still young, 31 is young.  I am pushing 40.

But I care not.  I got to dance.  I got to let it all out, let it all go, and get the holy hell out of my head for a good three hours.  I was in my body and I was transcendent.

I probably looked like I was smashed on E, but what the fuck ever.  I gave good entertainment.  I also had a happy mob of girls around me trying to vie for more of whatever I had going on.

That’s just the glow of good clean living, ladies.  You don’t want to “age”  you got to give up the vices.  And I’m not talking about just the alcohol and the drugs, but also the fat and the grease and the processed food, the Red Bulls, and the cigarettes, and the shoes that albeit make your legs look gorgeous, do not feel good on your feet.

Because when you are happy in your body, nothing will “young” you up more.  I felt ageless tonight.  And that was fun.

Right up until about 12:30 a.m. or so.  Then the dance floor got a little mobbed and a little pushy.  Large group of guys pushed their way up front to ogle the dancers on stage, they were damn sexy, this must be admitted, but to get shoved out-of-the-way by some pseudo frat puke who has less facial hair than I have greys (and although I have a few, I still don’t have many) can get a closer look at some ass that’s not interested in them anyway, means time to go.

Or, time to relocate.

I relocated.

I danced my way over to the water fountain, replenished the fluids and chit chatted with Ryan a bit more.  I also got to see Sonny, who looked fabulous, and of course the beautiful and luscious Suzie Q. who along with Krylon was putting on one hell of a floor show.  Although, the child could probably just stand up on stage and wave her left arm and we would all be enraptured, she is just 6’1″ of gorgieousity, and in heels to boot.

Then I climbed up on a box and broke it down solo style for a while.  The was probably my favorite part of the night.  Just getting on the box and doing my own thing.  I was still in the midst of the energy and the crowd, deeper into the music, and swathed in club lights and smoke.  I can feel the aches in my muscles more and more as I write and every little ache a sweet reminder of still getting out there and letting loose.

Far looser than I used to.

No drug induced mania for me.  No falling down stairs at 1015.  No cab rides home wishing the light was not coming up.  No lost money.  No new “friends”.  No running out to buy cigarettes and gum and sunglasses from the gas station.

Just revelry with the music and myself and my body.  Just being utterly in the moment.

Until some one else crawled up on the box and got all over me, but that was fine, it was nearing 1 a.m. and I was turning into a pumpkin.

I know it’s time to head home when I start thinking about writing my blog and how long it will take me to kick it out before I can crawl into bed.

But before that, before the night was said and done, I got to ride my beautiful glittery bike home.  Past the club kids smoking their cigarettes, past the guy getting a time out in front of the rear exit, past the cabs and the line of people just showing up to the club.

I glided home through the sweet cool night with the moon sailing next to me and the cold intoxication of jasmine flowers blooming in the chill.

I even rode with no hands for a little while.

Chet Baker is crooning to me and it’s time for another cup of tea.

It’s two a.m. on a Friday.  I am home, safe, sane, and danced out.

I feel glorious and graced.

Definitely graced.

Oh, and I officially have a secret crush from earlier this evening.

Wow.

Repeat.  Wow.

A very unexpected surprise.

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