last dance

Two thousand, zero, zero, party over, oops, out of time. Tonight we gonna party like it's 1999.

That's the song on repeat in my head every time I get to go out.  Which isn't often. I mean the real go out, not the going out to the shops to fill up my cupboards out, I mean out out. Handbag, phone, keys, purse, nail varnish, lippy (and inhaler) out.

These nights are few and far between. And I'm beginning to understand why.

My knowledge of where to have a good night has disappeared.

Now I'm not looking for the nights of the past where I'd be stepping out when everyone else is heading home; freezing my ass off because queuing up for the cloakroom wastes valuable dancing time; leaving someone mid-conversation because the DJ is playing a 'Tune' - cue one hand up in the air.

No that's not me anymore. But not through want of trying. It's because I simply don't know where to find a decent venue to groove, rave or mash it up on the dancefloor, anymore.  There are bars and clubs aplenty in this city but none offering a night with the music that'll make me get off my coveted bar stool.  When I've tried a 70s/80s / soul night before, the best tracks are played pre 7.30 to a few bar huggers and then ditched for chart noise when the young 'uns arrive. Time to queue up to collect my coat.

I refuse to believe that there isn't a disco night out there that conjures up the spirit of Studio 54 or a funk night to raise the ghosts of soul groovers or... I know, I know a ska night - where you skank 'til you can't skank no more.

Don't get me wrong, I'm partial to a bit of the stuff my girls listen to but if I get the chance to be out dancing, I need to be among my crowd; my tribe; my people who wanna get on the good foot.

I long for a club where you enter like the Soul Train dance line. Or failing that, I am invited a Blues house party, that my parents used to talk about, where you'd feel the bass of the music in the walls and in your chest. I've considered holding one myself but doubt my neighbours here at Twickers Towers would approve.

I'm determined so I'll keep looking and be content with that one 'tune' on a night out that I know all the words and dance moves to.  Or just save my shapes for the kitchen where I hear the resident DJ spins tunes to make you cut a rug.*  

*I was referring to me...with my own playlists..in my kitchen...alone.

what i am

Today someone asked if I minded my age being public. Regularly students are shocked when I volunteer my age instead of allowing them to guess (usually ranging from 23 to 56 - go figure!). I hasten to add that I am not compliment fishing, I just don't see the point in being embarrassed, coy or hiding your age. It's what it is. I'm 43. 1972 was a brilliant year for births, obviously. Being a child of the 70s was great - we were allowed outside 'til it got dark and three TV channels were more than enough. Experiencing teendom in the 80s meant fab music and BratPack films. I was at uni during the Britpop 90s and raved all the way through to my first job, but was also eager enough to keep up with technology as the millennium dawned. Seriously, who could ask for more? And now that the GeordieLad finally caught up with me on the goodship 40 this weekend, it's even better!

Bizarrely when I was a youth-type person I dreamt about being around in the 1960s because the fashion, the music, the Afros, the feminist writing was so mind-blowing. Until I read a couple of history books and realised the sixties was maybe not the best place for a black woman - social-politics wise - compared with the here and now. It's ironic that I roll my eyes at kids trusssed up in re-vamped eighties fashion in the same way I thought I looked cool in sixties gear.

Don't get me wrong I occasionally wish I could turn the clock back to right a few wrongs or take a different path to a better life destination. And I do wish I had appreciated my curves pre-kids, coz Lord knows those children came bearing more curves for me and they're both here to stay. Kids and Curves.

Overall though. Post40 me is a better me. Not perfect. Still improving. Always learning. Feeling loved.  

So no, I certainly don't mind being asked my age, being teased about my age, sharing my age in public. It is what it is. More importantly, I'm looking forward to 44.

just do it

This post started out as a query about why many of us get hung up on these 'do lots of amazing off the wall things before you are 40 or your life is is pointless' type lists. I came across an article I had cut out and kept* on the approach to my special day, which included such wonders such as:

Go skinny dipping in phosphorescence

Grow hair so long it covers your nipples

Spend a year with an entirely flat stomach

Eat the worm in a tequila bottle.

I mean come on!!! I don't even know where to start. How on earth have I got time to grow hair so long it covers my nipples, when I never even have a minute to sit down at the end of the day? Oh and my hair is afro, so clearly I will have to move my nipples onto the top of my head.

Admittedly, I did create a list the minute the fizz on my 39th birthday had lost its bubbles; mainly because my life had come to a grinding halt and I needed to give myself a kick up the jacksy. I had lived my twenties in a ball of low self-esteem, my thirties carrying babies and the weight of 150 student exam results; so I saw my forties as a time to think about me. Put me first...for a little while at least... on the odd weekend, you know.  I asked those around me for some ideas and filled in the gaps myself. What was I thinking? I was completely out of my depth, to the point that I must have fallen asleep and woken up thinking I was Rockefeller. Sheesh! Needless to say I counteracted my wonderlist with the caveat that it was a 40 during my 40s list - I still have some time.

Whilst I am surrounded by people past the 40 post seemingly happy with their lot, I wonder if it's our aim that once we turn 40, we should all be skipping through the years sticking two fingers up at 30-somethings? If you are - fab, great, I'm jealous. However I'm not there yet, and I'm getting impatient.  Two years into my forties and I'm facing some career challenges which are taking a toll on my confidence, I'm still on the verge of cardiac arrest after my Zumba classes, and I still haven't found my own style. Damn you 40s - you predicted and promised me confidence and a swagger!

But mid-post I was caught up in a discussion with FantasticoDad about living life for each day. Watching his wife losing herself and those around her in the depths of Alzheimers, I realise that whilst I have little connection with her the 3G have lost their Granny.  And heading into year five of having a fully compos mentis AWOLmum I realise that the 3G have no recollection of their biological Nana; my mum. Two legacies disappearing in time.  

So this post has changed its tack. Yes, these lists are a bit of fun, but why do we do them? Why are we so hung up on creating this decade-timed bucket lists? My worry had been that if some of these activities were too weird and wonderful, my day to day life would get in the way and I may find myself approaching the next decade with only one item ticked off and a sense of disappointment. But I guess, at least, I would be changing the habit of a lifetime and doing something a little less ordinary.

Thankfully, the article did conclude with the sentiment that our forties are a time to give yourself that kick to achieve some stuff, to relax, and to accept you for you. I like that. It might take me until the end of my forties though because those are some big deal accomplishments - so in the meantime I might have a go at *shuffles through list* : find jeans that my bum looks good in, and find glasses that suit me.  #livinglifedangerously

(*Shane Watson article in The Times title - All Grown Up Now)

Happy Birthday to ya

It's here people. It's finally here. 40 and ready to rock n roll! The list is already in full effect. Invitations have been written and sent and replied to.
This is now starting to get quite surreal. There are people I know who dread this age, but out there in the blogsphere - there are so many women embracing the 4-0. And why not? I look at the trendy teens tottering out there leacherous London nightclubs and I heave a sigh of relief. Honestly, I do.

Look I've had plenty of nights out on the tiles, and I dare say I still have a few more left in me. But the worst feeling is to be stood in a sticky floored disco, not knowing any of the words to one single song, and bouncing surreptitiously in the corner. I have accepted I may like the occasional top 10 single...shoot...download, but I haven't got a scooby who may have sung it or what they look like. And I don't care. Do you know how good Duran Duran's 'Rio' still sounds at top volume in your car on the way home from work? If you ever feel that your youthful vigour is a thing of the past, whack in Hits of the 80s or better still, put an LP on the dusty turntable, and the fancy footwork will come flooding back.

I have decided this is a year to reminisce and love all that my childhood flock wallpaper '70s was, revel in the batwinged '80s and relax about my hedonistic '90s. I'm alive and well, I have an interesting job, the most supportive friends, my family are wonderful and everyday brings a challenge. This life is far from perfect, but who's life is? I intend to remain excited about what the future has to bring. And it all starts here. Oh man, I'm crying now...hormones...It's my party and I'll cry if I want to ;)