My Dear, Let Us Don Our Disguises
When my adult daughter and her country music lovin’ friends invited my husband and me to go with them to the honky-tonk for cowboy dancing, I had a moment’s pause.
Let’s face it, how many cowgirls do you know named Victoria? I have no problem having high tea at the Empress Hotel, but riding bulls among the beer crowd is Greek to me. But when one’s children want you to hang out with them and their friends, one would be willing to do just about anything. Zip line, even. But that’s another story.
I figured disguises were in order. My husband, who wears a tie to work, was told by Daughter to put on some jeans and a white shirt. Somehow his Kirkland brand baggies, the Ralph Lauren white shirt, and the black loafers just did not seem too cowboy.
“Well at least the shirt says ‘CHAPS’ on it,” he said. “Don’t cowboys wear chaps?”
But then he put on the black Stetson that Daughter got him for Father’s Day. First time he’s worn it. Hold yer horses, Jee-hoshephat, and other cowboy exclamations. No one was ever going to look at his Kirkland jeans. Whew! Lordy be! Get me a fan! My fantasy man just walked out of our own bedroom. He blushed a little when cameras started flashing. Hot is hot.
So now I had to go find a disguise. Hmm. No problem with the honky-tonk badonkadonk. Got that in spades. But I also have the badonka-middle and badonka-thighs. I could hear Daughter yelling, “Just put on a pair of tight jeans, Mom. Let’s go!”
All my jeans are tight, but not in the right places.
I figured swirly skirt would work. I’ve got a dancing dress I wore on a cruise last year. It doesn’t have any bling on it but at least it is not a turtleneck. Is it okay for older women to show a little cleavage or is that gross? I guessed it was okay, even though my skin could pass for seersucker. We were in a hurry after all. I didn’t have time to lose 30 pounds.
Daughter thought I should wear her cowboy boots. With a dress? Evidently this is okay. I stuck on every turquoise bracelet I own and Daughter and her friends shrieked and cooed over how “stinkin’ cute!” I was.
Funny how they know how to manipulate me into the car.
I practiced a few loud “Yee-haws” in the car. What does one say when one flies off the mechanical bull?
When we walked into the place, I was so proud to be next to the handsomest cowboy in the whole joint. I held his hand like someone would steal him away.
He bought himself a $10 beer, I mentally calculated what I could put in my grocery cart for that.
We parked ourselves by the dance floor to study the dancing and figure out if we could do it. We could not peel our eyes away from Daughter, who we thought was everything adorable and precious and happy.
Her gay friend asked me to dance, but he bobbled along so that it was impossible to follow him. Even when he shouted “slow, slow, quick, quick” I couldn’t get it.
“C’mere honey, we are going to do it the old fashioned way,” I declared. I pulled him up next to me so I could feel which way he was going to bobble next. The poor frozen guy had a look of horror on his face, fearing that his friend’s mom was coming on to him. Such was not the case, let me assure you. Gay 29 year olds don’t do it for me. Besides, see that guy in the black Stetson?
I danced with the guy in the black Stetson next, and we held each other like we’ve been doing since 1974.
“I don’t think this is how they dance here,” he said.
“They dance any old way they feel like it,” I assured him.
“Well, then I guess we who actually belong to the old way can do whatever we feel like too,” he laughed.
Tummy to tummy we foxtrotted around and gazed into each other’s eyes. I think there might be something to this honky-tonking. It was hard to go home and shed our disguises. Even when our Daughter pointed at us and said to her friends, “Look at them! Aren’t they cute?”