A Wild and Wooly New Year’s Eve

Wooly because it was in a Moose club. Moose. Fur. Get it? Wild because…well, that’s the focus of this post.

I’ve written before that I very much enjoy what I call “dancing in the wild”; venues and events that attract various peoples, dances, and styles. Last night at the Greenwood Moose Club crystallized that feeling. Here are some pics. The first one is of us posing in a quiet corner. We are rather sweaty after a rousing rockabilly number, but happy.

Next is my sister. Normally I am never this goofy. It's her fault.

My neice Ruthie and me doing a fast triple swing.

Mom and dad.

Gary has written about the Moose organization in previous posts so I won’t go too much into that. Suffice to say they are fascinating organizations; a social club and a charitable organization, topped with a sprinkle of mysticism. I don’t think I’ve ever heard a prayer to “The Supreme Governor” before. Cool. They are also very welcoming. One of our dance clubs, The Indy Dancers, meets on the Moose dance floor a couple of times a month. The generous Moose members (would that be Meese?) invited our club to spend New Year’s Eve, and so my mom and dad (also ID members), my sister and her husband, my niece and nephew, and Gary (and me too) commandeered a table right by the polished hardwood.

The band, The Marlinaires, was very good. They played all kinds of music, including some fiddle numbers you couldn’t dance to, but that was OK. It was fun just listening. They also chose some non couple selections, such as a twist medley. My niece Ruthie and I burned up the floor. My body is screaming this morning from some low swivels, but it was SO worth it. We even worked in the Batusie, the Mashed Potato, and the Pony. Yes, I’m that old. But I can still do them. AND keep up with a seventeen year old. Ha.

From the first song out the floor was packed. Half way through some of the dancers seemed a bit lubricated. By the end of the evening parts of the space was, as Gary said, a scrum. But I didn’t mind that either.

Because despite the occasional stumbler, posse of wiggling women in a circle, and wild gyrations, dancing in the wild is my favorite way to go. Not saying I don’t love the elegant Roof or my club dances, but there is a whiff of artificiality to them. Why? Everyone “knows” how to dance. And that’s not real. Dancing in the wild mixes dancing levels, styles, and varieties. Yes, sometimes I wished I had more room. Less bumping. But in the end, it’s not MY dance floor…it belongs to everyone.

And with that feeling comes a freedom I don’t have anywhere else. I am completely uninhibited. Wild. Crazy. Fun loving.

And authentic. Dancing, in my opinion, is best expressed as a social pastime. Contests, competitions, routines, dancing clubs are all great, but they do not capture the essence of what dancing really means.

Do I become irritated when a slightly inebriated man steps on my toes? Yeah. But really, is that any worse than being jabbed by a ballroom arm flourish? At least the man grinned and apologized.

In the end, I’d rather dance in the wild. It’s just more fun. And that is the essence of why I dance. And to be with my man. But of course, that’s part of the fun.

Come on baby…let’s do the twist…