Takin' off those 'my, my, my boogie shoes'

It was a lovely night. My husband and I were dressed up for the first time in months: suit and tie for him, high heels and full-blown jewelry for me. We drank a little wine, made small talk at a large round table and successfully navigated a pasta meal without spilling any red sauce anywhere conspicuous.

With glasses toasted and speeches given, we could all finally stand up and stretch our legs. As we moved toward the bar for after dinner drinks, the podium was replaced with a couple of microphones, and I knew what would happen next.

It was dancing time.

"I had high hopes for dancing," I confessed the next morning while driving my 16-year-old, Tessa, to work .

"Dance?" she asked, shocked. "You and Dad?"

"We're not exactly contenders for Dancing With The Stars, but we've got a few moves," I smiled.

Actually my husband isn't much of a dancer anymore. Mind you we did dance when we were dating. With a few scotches in him, my husband has even been known to get up on stage and pull off an interesting rendition of Wild Thing. But over the years, mostly due to lack of practice, our couple dancing has definitely slowed its pace. Now I do most of my "getting down" with the clusters of other women whose husbands would rather stand at the bar. But this night was to be different.

"All during dinner they played Frank Sinatra and Dean Martin, the crowd easily had 20 years on us, so I got excited thinking that the music was going to be right up our alley -- romantic fun stuff," I continued. "I totally envisioned a night of schmaltz, maybe even a little singing in each other's ears."

Tess winced.

"But then what's the first song they break out?" I complained. Get Down Tonight, by KC and The Sunshine Band. And right after that, Proud Mary."

"Proud Mary?" she asked. "Doesn't that go on for like a hundred years?"

"Not long enough, because then they began the tour of the obvious."

"The tour of the obvious?" Tess asked.

"Celebration," I complained. "We Are Family by Sister Sledge and then my personal favorite, The Electric Slide."

I shook my head. "That song makes my ears bleed. It's one step above YMCA."

"Which is one step above the Hokey Pokey," Tess howled.

"Or the Chicken Dance," I laughed.

"Don't forget the Macarena!" Tess added.

"Imagine lines of women my age, all stuffed into dresses that don't fit doing the Macarena," I shared. "Is there any age group where those songs just don't get played? No one over the age of eight looks good doing the Macarena!"

"Why do DJs always play that stuff?" Tess shook her head.

"Two reasons: They get to get out on the dance floor and bust a move. And, sadly," I shook my head, "people dance to it. Get a few cocktails in some broad and she's just gotta 'put on my my my boogie shoes,' " I sang.

"And boogie which-choo!" we finished together.

"Just once I'd like to go to an event where those five songs are just plain banned. A Macarena-YMCA-Hokey Pokey-Chicken Dance-Electric Slide-free zone."

"You left early, I take it?" Tess asked.

"Yep, we slid right on outta there and were home by 11," I frowned. "No Y-Macarena-C-A Electric Pokey Dancing for me!"