It ends with dancing
Last friday p-man and I endevoured to endevour to an entertainment! Thanks to the scheduling of the babysitter and the persistence of the opening acts we saw some of it.
Since we're mostly sober persons who no longer take 14 smoke breaks per entertainment event, what would we do with out time? Well, as is so often the case in Vancouver we needed to review the fashion statements or shall I say the deafing measures of fashion silence. Soft old t-shirt. Big sweater. Taiga. Taiga. Taiga. All quite dull as we waiting for the main act.
With each note the music was improving. My eyes did start to drift from the Gaparific splendor of the Commodore Floor. When would the dancing begin? It seemed never. It seems to me that people don't even dance for the main act anymore. We are all too effing ironic or something??? The best that we can hope for is some ameoba like throbbing to break the head bobbing for at least the top 20 hits?
WTF with the end of dancing??
Me. I wanted the dancing. I am weaning my little guy in earnest and those warm moments of physical love are moving into the laughable goosestepping I have patented to sleep my kids. The weird long legged wobbling I do whilst croaking my off-skat version of lullaby and good night is the music I am ensconced in. It is a melancholy end to a three years, more or less, of boob bursting mama love for two babies. All coming to their end in dancing.
I had hoped to hop to a cool beat with a multitude of partners as a mind clearing exercise. But just like breastfeeding these days we prefer to keep our heel kickin' in private?