First published in the Ipswich Local News November 30, 2024
On one of our early dates in college — say, 1993 — my now-husband bought me cowboy boots and took me to a Longhorn Steakhouse in the Chicago suburbs so I could show them off (and stomp on peanuts as we threw them on the floor).
I wore them everywhere — especially working in our college mailroom, where we listened exclusively to country music, giddyup-ing our way through a northern winter as we stuffed mailboxes.
So, when we got married and moved to Memphis for two jarring years, I realized that while I was not a southern belle, I was a line dancer.
My boots were magic, and I could twirl and stomp like a pro.
But then … life: jobs, grad school, Boston, kids, minivans. Line dancing gave way to making dinner, going to basketball and volleyball games, and needing to be asleep by 9 p.m. …
… Until last weekend, when a group of moms planned to go line dancing at a country bar in the big, bad city.
When we arrived, feeling giddy about being out, in outfits, at the late hour of 6 p.m., the place was empty.
But we sat down and ordered dinner (that somebody else made) while waiting to see if line dancing (or anything) would happen.
It did.
At 7 p.m., a guy got up and announced we’d start with a few easy dances. By then, some people had trickled in, but it was still sparse.
The floor was as wide open as a big country sky.
The first lesson was easy enough: step, step, stomp, then again in the other direction. Throw in a grapevine, plus a kick forward and look out.
We were amazing! We hooted and high-fived and felt smug about our moms’ night out.
But then the music sped up. Suddenly, the floor flooded with people who appeared out of nowhere. They shimmied and spun past us like a coordinated stampede.
One college-aged girl in a white baby-doll dress, hair in pigtails, holding a fan, kicked past us, stomping and sashaying in Reeboks.
Two sets of couples in baggy jeans and sweatshirts paraded past, quite literally flipping and dipping as they went.
A girl in jean shorts and a red bikini top twirled by. And right in front was a woman, certainly a decade older than us, in a fluorescent orange beach cover-up, Converse sneakers, and 1980s knee-high socks.
She looked fresh off of South Beach with skin the texture of a sun-soaked leather bag. But yee-ha! She could kick the dust up!
She saw us looking slightly less smug and yelled out, “Follow me, girls. You’ve got this!”
The sheer mass of people and variety of shoes, outfits, and ages was overwhelming, but we jumped in.
“Whoops,” I called out as I grapevined into an oncoming wall of people
“Sorry!” My friend laughed as she stepped into me while I attempted a jazz square.
It felt insane. Were my magic boots no longer magic? Was I too old?
And then the music changed. “I know this one!” I screamed.
“How do you know it?” One of the moms yelled as she shuffled by me.
“I watched a YouTube video!” I yelled back as I quarter-turned past a girl with another fan.
“Seriously?”
“Yep! I propped my laptop up on the counter while I was making dinner and used my microwave door as a mirror!”
Where there’s a mom, there’s a way.
For two brief minutes, I was totally in sync: part of the stampede, rocking out in my magic boots.
But then, “Okay, folks. Let’s take it up one more level!”
It was a level we could not attain, but no one cared. Every age, outfit, dance style and fan was represented, including our gaggle of middle-aged moms who were still young cowgirls at heart.
Young cowgirls who were up past their bedtime.
So while the dancing was still going strong, I pulled around with the White Whoosh. The moms came tumbling out of the bar.
The bouncer smiled at our minivan full of moms and agreed to take our picture — a picture that showed that some magic never gets old.