To Tango with Wine





I got done in by 3 glasses of wine!! Strange things have been happening to me since I turned 30!! I mean, 3 glasses, seriously? As a result, this post will be a piece of genius rubbish. The kind brought on by an alcohol induced, sleep deprived haze! Let’s crush and burn this post.  I know where to lay the blame.

Where was I? Yes, yes, the wine….

I know, I know (being especially bright this very instant). A mum at home, probably firmly immersed in unintelligible baby language (two years at home), and a sameness to my daily routine - each day looking just like the previous 13…puh! I should be swimming in the stuff, right? Well, I’ve been good (remember to let Santa know). I’ve been so good I barely touch the contents of my home bar. Any lustful thought of reanimating my lethargic, uncooperative, sleep deprived brain with that little infusion of the ferment is swiftly laser-ed! I’ve been so good, I don’t remember the last
time I threw up after a drink (previous customary indicator that I’d had enough). This has got nothing to do with memory loss or developing a thick gut. I just haven’t had that many drinks in eons.  A glass here, a glass there and then,  “I’ve a baby at home.”

So…

My thoughtful other half took me to a ball mid this week. Brilliant! Wonderful… romantic, even! A time to let our collective curls down. Well, that is until one factors in that, our lil’ un’s wakeup call is rivalled only by that of a rooster. The slightest glimmer of dawn and it’s bye-bye soft comfortable bed. I was going to have a blast, though, no matter what.

The Cheshire cat on whose arm my hand was draped just couldn’t stop grinning, for no reason other than the presence of the stunningly exquisite and exotic nymph on his arm, who happened to be his wife (yes, I read minds too). I was the only black person in there too. A few sips into my first glass of fermented grape juice, I was asked to dance by a friend (the other half needs a good little quantity of an alcohol-based boost to attack the dance floor). I was ecstatic! I LOVE dancing!

Guys, I shuffled! I trampled on toes (ok, an exaggeration, but it felt like it). The Tango? I was untangled!
I then let go and let myself be swung around. Ballroom dancing is not for the untrained! I pride myself in having an inborn body rhythm, being black and all. No music is too difficult to step into and float away with. I held firm and strong in this belief, until the ball. The people I’d always made fun of (white people dancing? Hahahaha!) were the cream in my coffee twirl. I lay at the bottom – the dregs. Don’t you just wish that couple giving dirty dancing a run for its money – just – trips? It was a beautiful disaster! Where’s salsa when one needs it? I at one point jumped to be caught (like one does in salsa). Quick thinking on my dance partner’s part saved me loads of blushes. It was a mess, but this mama was out to play and nothing could faze that. My dance partner insisted I did splendidly, but you know, friends will be friends. I topped up my wine glass and sipped with a ferocity that matched
my wounded pride (?).

As the evening wore on, ballroom music gave way to more forgiving genres. The air of elegance wore off and a couple I’d secretly been observing let

the effects of booze bubble to the surface. Always on a look out for my next blog idea, I’d mentally tagged them, to see what happens when the booze hits home. See, they hadn’t danced all evening, and had barely exchanged more than a few words. She looked like she’d just stepped out of a 50s magazine. I LOVE Vintage and her ensemble was spot on; a knee length blue and white polka dress whose upper half squeezed her boobs upward into twin speed bumps and a bottom half that flared out at the waist, jet black hair coiffed in a vintage up do, a deep red pout and an aloof expression. She was a picture of vintage sophistication. He had on the requisite black suit, white shirt and a non-descript tie. Nothing interesting.

Midnight struck and as most people looked deeper into their glasses and saw a magical dance floor, the couple seemed to snap out of a deep trance. She got up, took his hand and they danced. Later, (I swear my eyes happened by them), she was straddling him and a lip chewing contest was in progress. I was a bit tipsy by then and hell, I was going to stare if I felt like it. Here was a real story unfolding as either was bound to loose a pair of lips. I was then temporarily distracted by hip hop, dancehall and was that Michael Jackson? I WAS IN MY ELEMENT. By the time I got back to our table, straddled was stone faced and straddler was pulling another tipsy guy towards her, writhing against him while previously straddled tried to appear nonchalant. All pretense at elegance had been obliterated.  It was turning into a shambles and I’d just lost a story. We, parents of an alarm clock, called it a night.




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