The Dancing Queen!
There are moments in everyone's life when some thing, or some incident, has "how embarrassing" written all over it in red Sharpie ink. For me, even the mention of the word "disco" leeks with temporary, high-inducing blots and scribbles. It is one of those music/dance genres (and eras) that make me blush just thinking about. At this very moment I am basking in my embarrassment to the glittering beat of ABBA.
Though I'm embarrassed about it, as well as for all those who found themselves trapped in its decade and on its dance floor making Travolta-esque moves, I will still continue to listen. The one thing you will not see, even if you live to the ripe old age of Methuselah, is me dancing publically to said music genre.
My confession today is that I do actually dance to this kind of music but, like the sighting of the Loch ness monster, this sight will only be a thing of legend and fairytales in which the imagination will have to paint its own nightmarish picture. For in these impulsive moments, all blinds, curtains, gaps, and doors will be tightly sealed, blocking any eye curious or crazy enough to attempt a peak at my embarrassment. I’m not exactly sure why this dance form brings out my Victorian prudery. It just might be the obvious freedom, and particularly immodest tendency, to exhibit certain traditionally gartered body parts. Parts that no longer have bras or others that no longer need to breath. Anyway, I’m starting to blush again, so I’d best go hide in shame or lock up the house and don my platforms, feather my hair, and squeeze into my pink sequins embroidered jumpsuit. (I’m sorry if any of you are experiencing cyber nausea at the moment, really).