Blame It On The Bosanova

images I went dancing…a last minute, spontaneous decision of great regret.

Why?

I can hardly move this morning.

Unable to sleep, I remembered a modeling agency I’m affiliated with was having a party that started late.

Against my better judgement, I threw back the covers and started ransacking my closet for party wear. Because it was high fashion over-the-top, a pair of jeans just wouldn’t do (unless you were Kate Moss), so I slithered into a little bright blue swirly skirt and white, ruffled top and thought…Susannah, you look like you belong on top of a cake, but oh what the hell….everyone likes dessert.

Dashing out the door like a reckless twenty-year-old, I slid down three steps in my  Manolos that let’s face it, were rather rusty. Thank God for bannisters as I caught myself before becoming a clumsy (though hopefully chic) crime scene.

After jumping in a cab, I remembered the size of this place was like an airplane hangar…uh-oh…you know what that means? I won’t hear a thing, just a buzz like some queen bee was throwing herself a bash with all her relatives present.

What’s a thin girl with hearing issues to do?

Make a beeline to the bar, that’s what.

This was after the doorman said, “Can’t lettcha in widdout your invite.” I looked at him solemnly. “Listen, see this outfit, see the receipt to my cab? I won’t be eating till next Thursday so will you please just let me in?”

He actually scanned me from head to high heel and said, “Yeah, ah-right.”

After plying myself with a vodka and tonic and enough lime to turn green, I took a stroll around the hive.

Models as far as the eye could see images-5 gathered in clusters posing with their butts in the air…old model trick for maximum rear-end.

I looked for someone I knew and sure enough, there was Tabitha Monahan chatting up a man that could be her father.

Turns out, it was her father in from Sarasota for the holidays. He wanted to escort his little Tabby to her late night soiree. “She’s still my baby,” he said, chugalugging two shots of  scotch one after the other. His baby, by the way, is 62. Meow.

My vodka was more tonic than spirit so I excused myself to fetch another making chitchat along the way, an art long ago honed. Along with air kisses and sly smiles, I said things like, look at you, you never change…cute dress…those shooooes…are you still with what’s his name? These stock options could really apply to anyone you bump into…male or female and that often includes, cute dress.

So there I was amid a sea of superficial all-stars wondering, what the hell I was doing on 12th Avenue at midnight beneath blinking lights sipping watery wine I have now switched to since they’ve run out of bad booze.

Then I noticed my feet, already killing me, starting to tap their little toes.images-3“Hey, what are you two doing? Stop it, right now,” but you know those sling-backs, you can’t tell them anything and they’ve already tried to kill me once on those stairs.

Uh-oh, then I hear….Hey sister, go sister, soul sister, go sister….

Next think I know I was in the middle of the dance floor with three other people…a 6 foot black girl in silver lame’,  her date who came up to her shoulder and a bald male model without his shirt.

I shimmied and shook, boog-a-looed and bumped till four in the morning numb from the crotch down. No, I wasn’t doing it beneath the disco ball, my thighs and calves hadn’t seen this much action since Dirty Dancing…a great film…if you’re drunk with a guy you’ll hopefully never see again.

“You sure can dance,” said the 6 footer. “You’d never know it by lookin at ya…you come off pretty stiff.”

“That’s what they say about me,” chuckled baldy.

That was old Cinderella’s cue to get her coach out of valet parking and skedaddle.

After fifteen baths, a bottle of Advil and a tube of extra strength Tiger Balm, my thighs have finally come to.

Despite limping and being an inch shorter, I really had a good time….but I can’t get that song out of my head.

Hey sister, go sister, soul sister, go sister
Hey sister, go sister, soul sister, go sister

He met Marmalade down in old New Orleans
Struttin’ her stuff on the street
She said, “Hello, hey Joe
You wanna give it a go?”

Mmm, gitchi gitchi ya ya da da
Gitchi gitchi ya ya here
Mocca chocolata ya ya
Creole Lady Marmalade

Voulez-vous coucher avec moi, ce soir?
Voulez-vous coucher avec moi?

This is my 800th essay…wonders never cease.

SB

 

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About Susannah Bianchi

I'm just a girl who likes to write slightly on slant. I've had a career in fashion, dabbled in film and to be honest, I don't like talking about myself. Now my posts are another matter so I will let them speak for themselves. My eBooks, A New York Diary, Model Behavior: Friends For Life and Notes From A Working Cat can be found on Amazon.com. Thanks.
This entry was posted in Beauty, Fashion, humor, modeling, New York City, sex, Uncategorized, Women and men and tagged , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

14 Responses to Blame It On The Bosanova

  1. skinnyuz2b says:

    Dancing might not be so good on our bodies now, but it’s great for the soul.

    Like

  2. katecrimmins says:

    Wish I was there! I love dancing! Back in my youth I would go to the dancing bars with friends and I’d go out to the dance floor by myself. I didn’t care. It was crowded. No one could tell if I was with someone and besides, they didn’t care. I went to a place in San Francisco called “Dance Your Ass Off” and I did! You had to go to the ladies room to rest because if you were out someone would ask you to dance. Ahh good times! So glad you went out. You deserve it. After a few days all those aches and pains will go away but the fond memories will remain. The Manolos will thank you! They get bored living in closets.

    Like

    • Dance Your Ass Off, what a great name for a club. I’m glad you like to boogie too…I thought maybe I was dipping into early dementia. I forgot how much I like it. When I was a girl centuries ago, I went dancing all the time with Pat and Shari, my teenage pals. We went to all the school dances with out teased hair and lipstick stored in our pantyhose. Can’t believe I remembered that.

      Like

      • katecrimmins says:

        I remember my first dance. I was so young (sigh). There was a boy who asked me to dance every dance. I was so damn shy that I never got his name and never saw him again. Too bad. He was a cutie as I remember it (of course memories do play tricks!).

        Like

      • He probably was cute and I’ll bet you were cute together. You’re right about having the memory way past the ache.

        Like

  3. MJ says:

    Mr. Darcy: “Every savage can dance”. You go, girl! (And have a great weekend!)

    Like

  4. Looks like you’ll have to go out every week to get used to it. 😉 I’m not a great one for dancing, but it sounds like fun. Congratulations on your 800th essay. That’s quite an accomplishment.

    Like

  5. micklively says:

    I rarely find myself in a situation where dancing is a possibility but, like you, I can’t resist when the opportunity presents itself (much to my wife’s embarrassment). I usually end up crippled for a week. But, hey, you just gotta shake that thang when you can.

    Like

    • My thang has finally recovered, but a couple of days there it was iffy. I was walking like Chester on Gunsmoke. If you ever watched that in England…Chester limped….glad you’re back safe and sound…missed that Mick 🙂

      Like

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