Evacuate the Dance Floor, ya'll

I don't go dancing anymore. The 'thritis has got me in it's clutches. Also an unfortunate incident where I saw fit to fling myself offstage during a show last year, left me in crutches and messed my back up. I do miss it so. I used to go all the time. My dream, in high school was to sneak into THE PLANET. What a mysterious, beer soaked, black-lit, Depeche Mode thumping forbidden temple it was. It was quite the status symbol to show at Monterey HIgh School with the remnant of the ever so recognizable stamp left on your hand.
There are many songs out there on the interwebbings and Youtubes that contain a pretty young thing describing herself dancing in a club. At your leisure check out Kelly Rowland or if you must Will Smith's female telling of such. What a seducing tale they weave. Proclaiming that everyone in the club it having a petite mal seizure in their precious places at the mere glimpse of the dancing Greek Goddess that you are flippin the hair and cutting loose.
Right.
We all know what that girl looks like. Much like that one bra-less old hippie lady with the bootie bag and broomstick skirt letting her best Isodora Duncan jam at the Jazz brunch while you are trying to choke
 down your migas, I 'm afraid that the scene looks different on the other side. I was once that dancing queen, letting the ameretto sours help me find my inner rythm, dancing alone on a table, feeling sexier than Tawny KItean doing the splits on sportscars. God, forbid, you have a sober friend with you. Said a-hole would recount how you fell off the table and didn't actually realize it, or dry humped one of your professors. No, such things are better left in the void of Saturday night. Let that one, drunk girl have her lone moment feeling like a sexy beast on the platform. Might be the best part of the week.
I always felt better about the quality of my moves after that first nip, anyway. I started going to country bars later in college when it finally dawned on me that the gay guys at the Planet where NOT going to ask me out. I was astonished to note that a drunk cowboy couldn't walk to the bathroom, but could two- step at an alarming speed. This confirmed an earlier sighting of the other team; a drunk gay man can do a backwards roller- skating routine to Xanadu that will straight up move you.
Sweet and precious drunk dancing, me , my physical therapist, and a bottle of anti- inflammatory loverlies are coming for you.  In more comfortable shoes, I'll give you that. But, oh, it will be broughten.