I almost went out dancing a few Fridays ago.  It seemed like a good idea that Thursday, when I read about the “infectious” Afrobeat band Fenibo playing at a bar downtown.

“Sometimes you just have to get out and shake it!” said one vivacious friend, a young pretty mother of three who has a new gleam in her eye now all her children are sleeping through the night.  Maybe a sweaty evening of dancing would shake me out of my late-fall funk.

But the band didn’t start till 9:30 pm.  At which time, I am usually sacked out in C’s bed or curled up with a novel in my own bed, or sometimes, in a burst of creative energy, writing at my desk, but rarely, if ever, downtown and dressed to dance.  I imagined putting the girls to bed and then slipping into tight jeans and a silver tank top.

Could I navigate the negotiations and demands of Bedtime— what books, which bed, the flossing and brushing and fluoride and jammies, the recent, indignant refusals from A to lie down calmly and stop spinning or hopping (“You’re not the boss of me!” she shouts.  “Why do I have to do what you say?!”  Or, once, tearfully— “Mommy, I feel like a pet and you are the owner!”)

Could I snuggle and read about the Ingalls family and Ma’s enviable starched white curtains sewn from old sheets and trimmed with her girls’ outgrown calico dresses and still not fall asleep?  Could I, after that whole motherly ritual, rally the energy to leave the house?  The inertia was overwhelming.  Without a good friend to drag me out, I simply could not pull a Clark Kent and transform myself into enough of a MILF to venture into a downtown bar.

Then a miracle occurred but one week later.  I conspired to have the house to myself for 24 hours, on the very same evening of Wild Night on the Catwalk, the gala fashion show up at the Putney School (benefitting Brattleboro Area Hospice).  Jazzed with anticipation, I planned a Moms’ primping and Prosecco pre-party at my place, starting at the respectable hour of 5:30 pm.

We blasted Lady Gaga and got dolled up, trading jewelry and make-up, eyelash curlers and glitter.  I zipped myself into a red silk halter dress I’d found at Boomerang and—making the va-va-voom statement of my life— slipped on some 4-inch, leopard-print stilettos.

I threw the booster seats in the back of the station wagon and managed to squeeze six fancy moms into one car (our collective nine children in the care of their kind fathers and grandparents). Freed from the drab Vermont garb of jeans and wool, my friends were a gorgeous bunch, decked out in retro black mini-dresses, royal blue strapless, and animal-print chiffon.

“Do I need some more glitter?” I kept asking as we zoomed north on 91, trying to make the red-carpet scene with TV show host Desha Peacock.

Now I know why I’ve spent most of my adult life in clogs, Uggs, and running shoes.  The high heels felt fine for the first 30 minutes, and I reveled in my newfound height, the sheer glam of those pumps.  But when I tried to walk my feet slid down, my toes pinched, and I minced along taking tiny ridiculous steps on the stiletto points.  My entourage of friends sashayed off toward the red carpet as I hobbled along behind like a lame old lady.

Is this what it means to be Jessica Simpson, on display in crippling shoes every time you make a public appearance? I survived another hour of teetering, then slid off the heels and watched the show in my stocking feet.

Truly the night was unforgettable.  We mingled with 600 guests decked out in wild finery, nibbled gourmet hors-d’oeuvres from local caterers, and drank vodka tonics without fear of consequences.  I hadn’t expected to be so moved by the designers— how they restructured used clothing to create one-of-a-kind fashion statements.  The act of fashion as art, as self-expression, had never felt so palpable before— not a remote spread on the pages of Vogue, but alive, right in my hometown.

Talking, watching, dancing, I felt energized by the crowd, young and free. Not young like the 15 year-old size-zero models vamping it up on the catwalk, but not venerable and over-the-hill yet either.  At the end of the night I came home alone to an empty house. Almost eerie to do whatever I wanted.

For a moment, I was perplexed.  Should I could clean up the sticky cocktails and snacks in the kitchen or get online and post my photos on Facebook, or take a steamy shower and fall into bed, knowing no one would wake me up? What luxury to be at such a loss.  Then I saw the bowl full of pomegranate seeds I’d prepared to go with our pre-party Prosecco.

First I kicked off my glamorous, wretched shoes.  Stood over the sink in my red silk dress and ate those pomegranate seeds with my bare hands.  Crimson jewels exploded juice in my mouth. Some say the fruit Eve ate back in Eden was  a pomegranate, not an apple.  Alone, I ate the sweet knowledge of my self, my identity separate from my family, shifting but intact, a live kernel. Then I went up and went to sleep.

Tags:   Fenibo · MILF · moms' night out · motherhood · Wild Night on the Catwalk4 Comments