A Birthday Shag
I admit it. As humiliating as it is to confess, especially to a big ole audience like this one, I’ll just put it out there. Today, I’m forty-three years old. Middle-aged. A little saggier and baggier today than I was yesterday. So, I ought to be able to own just about anything without fear, right?
Umtpeen opportunities to perfect my technique. Countless attempts to go all the way. At times, practically begging these boys to make me a real woman instead of a groping, clueless girl.
It’s the state dance of South Carolina, a whirling, twirling, foot-shuffling vision on the pulsing dance floor. It requires two people, and one of them really needs to know how to lead. Which takes me to my next problem.
I don’t follow well.
So, for most of my life, I have implored various unlucky men to take me and make me a shagger, only to step on their toes, heat-butt them, try to twirl them instead of the other way around, and generally scare them to freaking death. MTM won’t even shag with me.
Is a forty-three year old woman too old to learn to shag? Because, I’d really love to swirl around the dancing space to Stagger Lee, my very favorite shagging song of all time.
Do you have a favorite shag song, Dear Reader? The dance or THE DANCE, doesn’t matter to me which one you mean.