Week Fourteen

Event:  Line Dancing at a Country Bar

This weekend a good friend of mine hosted what you might call a "Mom's Gone Wild" weekend.  Her sister and 3 good friends had their annual trip to "the big city" for a weekend full of shopping, pampering and partying.  While I don't meet the criteria (the whole "mom" thing), I have been an extension of the group for the last couple of years.  It always proves to be a good time and this year was no exception.

We started out with surprise transportation provided by a black, stretch limo and inside the country tunes were rockin' as we slugged back Coors Light.  The Moms and I kicked off the night with Mexican for dinner and that was our first mistake.  On our way into the restaurant we were 7 energetic women, a few beverages in, feeling no pain.  On our way out of the restaurant we acted as if we'd just entered a hot dog eating contest and won.  We were full.  We had fallen into a burrito/chip/queso/guacamole/why am I still eating chips-induced coma.  Moms gone wild turned into moms gone mild.  We were in trouble.

Attempting to rally, we drove around town before making our final descent to a place whose reputation precedes itself - Denim & Diamonds!  Where 'Cowboys Lie" and the bigger the belt buckle the better.  I don't think I've been to a country bar in 10 years but when I walked in, I was like a country girl in a Wrangler outlet.  I was in people watching Heaven!  I love how country and rock have collided.  Women were in sequined tank tops but had their shit-kickers on.  Guys were wearing cowboy hats, but yet had bedazzled jean pockets.  I was confused, but I loved it. 

As we got our beers and perched ourselves on bar stools, I learned that line dancing extends beyond Cotton Eyed Joe and the Cha Cha Slide.  The seven of us looked on, astonished at how many different dances there are - and every gal in the joint knew every one!  Dances called the Bombshell Stomp, the Cabo San Lucas and the Booty Call.  WTF?  I couldn't believe my eyes. 

Thinking I could fit right in, I jumped on the dance floor and attempted to learn the moves, making more of an idiot out of myself than anything else.  But, it appeared my attempt at fitting in didn't go unnoticed.  At one point, a sweet, older man (borderline grandpa) came up and asked me to dance the two step.  I accepted the invitation knowing THIS was a dance I could do.  Little did I know, grandpa's dream was to be on Dancing with the Stars and he was going to make a partner out of me whether I liked it or not.  While I started out like Bambi walking for the first time, before I knew it, I was twirling, boot-scooting, two, three and four stepping my way around the dance floor.  Reba ain't got nothin' on me!

Two songs later, I thanked grandpa for the free lessons and off he went.  The unfortunate part of the story is, about 30 minutes later there was a bunch of commotion near the bar.  The Police were here.  Then the EMT arrived.  Concerned (and nosey) I walked over to see what the commotion was, only to find my sweet dance partner had collapsed and was lying on the floor.  They had him hooked up to a bunch of monitors (yes, right there in the bar!) and had a wet cloth over his head and chest.  He appeared to be doing ok, but I can't help but think - did he have a heart attack because I was such a terrible dancer?

I might need therapy for this one.