Dear Mr DJ in your funky, backwards, wocka wocka cap at the local pub,
I have a few little things to point out to you.
Last Friday night, you totally lost out BIG time.
You see this 40 something Mama was in ‘da house and ready to rip it with her posse. The entourage was made up of 8 high school friends on our annual girls weekend pilgrimage, and we were running hot! Damn HOT I tell you!
Two of us had flown interstate to be there, and kids were left with grandparents, babysitters and basically anyone who would have them. Accelerators hit the floor as we skidded out of driveways, camembert and prosecco took the place of wet wipes in our hand bags and the dust was wiped off our highest heels.
Earlier in the day we had grooved through the rented holiday house to cranking ’80’s tunes, though it had been pretty much drowned out by our squeals, laughter and chatter. Hair was straightened, frocks were swapped and a friend had introduced me to golden, glitter paint-on eye shadow. Yep. This is a ‘thing’ and only now do I feel my world is complete. We had been wildly trying to catch up on 12 months worth of life.
Sparkling wine was magnificnet. Cheese was gooey. Laughter was free.
We made our way to the local pub, keeping ourselves in check to enjoy the delicious meal upstairs in the restaurant. Wine and conversation flowed. Soon it was time for the main event. With ‘formalities’ out of the way, it was time to head downstairs for some MUZ-AC! My feet marched pronto onto the dance floor, the fact that I had not worn heels in quite some time was forgotten and 25 odd years were erased in my mind.
We were AMAZING, Mr DJ.
Surely you saw us?
On closer inspection, we soon realised the room was swarming with children; clearly there was some school camp accommodation deal on. But no, the UDL cans clutched tightly to their crop tops showed they were of legal age. In fact, they were remarkably all women. Some sort of end of season trip was in full swing and I fear that we may have been crashing their party. But we had not come all this way to sit at home on the couch. We became oh so very witty. We created our own ‘end of season’ trip. Something T-Shirt worthy… The reunion of our Year 8 basketball team perhaps? Our Yr 9 choir was full of undiscovered talent; maybe that could work? The back-up dancers for the upcoming Bros tour perhaps? We were cracking our own selves up.
But wait…what was that racket?
It seemed some of the teenagers were seizing their moment. Karaoke was happening AND we even knew some songs. Sure, there was quite a lot of angry, unrecognisable rap, accompanied by lots of sky finger pointing and jumping that was looking waaaayyyy too energetic by this stage of the night (friends; it was getting on well past 9pm by now), BUT we were quite the force on that dance floor.
Remember us, Mr DJ?
We were the group dancing in a circle around our sensible, warm jackets and handbags, occasionally finding the sticky, booze carpet a little too hard to negotiate.
Then the ripple went through our circle.
The consensus was that I was to show these young girls how to rock a tune. I was to be the designated 40+ brigade karaoke representative. I weakly argued, whilst quickly running through songs that I thought I could manage in my mind; anything in which I wouldn’t completely humiliate myself. The call for back up singers was fast denied and the request for the golden classic, everyone’s favourite, the ‘sure thing’ dance floor winner, “Brown Eyed Girl”, was delivered by my friend to you, Mr DJ.
I know, right? Cooler than cool.
“Two songs and she’s on,” you promised.
Well, Mr DJ, two songs came and went, along with 2 more fast wines to settle the nerves, and another 14 year old rapper hit the stage.
Next one. Not me.
Next one. Still not me
As my sweaty palms clutched another plastic wine cup (this joint was well classy), a round of shots was investigated at the bar. What? Really? Why? Did we miss the ‘no shots’ allowed laws? Did we breastfeed and snatch precious sleep whilst licencees debated this new stance? Had you confused us with the bigger, much younger, group of patrons? In hindsight, probs not such a bad thing, but Mr DJ, you were keeping us hanging. The bar was raking in our cash as we waited.
We were fast running out of puff and our witty conversation from earlier in the evening was being messed around in limbo.
I called it, Mr DJ.
If it wasn’t the next one, we were gone.
It wasn’t me.
Outsky, Mr DJ.
I would have been AWESOME; well, my girls would have cheered and sang loud and you might have been fooled in to thinking I was actually a ROCK STAR!!!
Just to add insult to injury, the ‘oh so funny (not funny)’ bouncer asked us upon exit if our parents had called to pick us up. Actually, at the time we giggled like school girls, but apparently, CLEARLY we were not.
Well, Mr DJ, we did make it back to our couch.
We sensibly removed makeup, applied cleanser to our faces (and moisturised), slipped into our PJ’s, drank quality wine from glasses, and chatted about the benefits of hashtags, cool boys in High School and our Yr 12 English Projects.
Mr DJ; we all received quite an education that night.
I learnt that one should really apply band aids as a precautionary measure when heading out dancing.
I discovered people still use Shazam and that something called Metafit is terrifyingly close to taking over the world.
Sadly, I also discovered that when you have the promise of a sleep-in, you will still wake at the crack of dawn and wonder how your babies slept.
As for you, Mr DJ?
I just hope from this moment onwards, when you hear, “Brown Eyed Girl,” you think of the mysterious “Anna” who left YOU hanging on stage; or possibly, the one who got away…
Look out next year.
I will be ready.
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