Dance like (and pray that) no one is watching

Every year, at least once, I spend the weekend with my childhood girlfriends. Though we've all married and moved to various places, we remain committed to at least one night a year of destroying our bodies and minds with wine, chocolate and small-minded, catty gossip. This year, a few couldn't make it due to some sort of adult responsibility, so the remaining 3 of us rallied. Typically, we do nothing. That's the goal.

This year, a bit of a shift. Here's how it went down:

Me: So did you hear about Sally Smith's divorce? Man, I saw that one comin'. Can you pass the bucket of chocolate?

Friends (both mothers): Let's cancel our dinner reservations, eat the rest of your husband's deep dish pizza that he was looking forward to all month...and GO DANCING."

Dancing? I mean, sometimes I dance with the husband in the kitchen. Or when I have a full bladder in line at the grocery store. In the company of a DJ named "JeZus," it's been a while. But, I considered that their mornings and nights consist of poop, Cheerios and T-ball and found the courage.

We arrived about 4 hours early to the closest late-night dancing establishment. After we paid our "cover," we were greeted by two very impressive breasts and their owner, who said, "Beers or shots?" We headed downstairs for the 80's music. Seemed the safer and more familiar option. With no choice but to dive right in, we all attempted to rediscover our smoothest moves. First the "hold the beer in the air" dance, then the "just the shoulders" move, and so on. It was a slow start but before we knew it we were 15 again, jumping and screaming to "Get out of my dreams and into my car."

It was an unusual, much more physically active girl's weekend - one that I believe we all needed. Sweaty 20-somethings with trucker hats, tube tops, platform shoes and bad decision-making skills surrounded us, shining a revealing light on our age. But we didn't care. We knew all the words and they didn't.