Rubber Duckie Disco

Hey y’all! The glorious sun and sweet Dixie Champagne have perked me up! (If you haven’t seen it yet, you must, must, must click the link of Buford Calloway on SNL below.) Seriously, SNL hasn’t been that funny in AGES. Sethery…

Here’s my dilemma. I love to go out dancing on a Saturday night, but, lo, I am no longer a spring chicken, not even close. However, I usually don’t look my age (that’s Sunday morning). What I most often attract is 20 something guys. Like 23 and up. I have often jokingly called myself Mrs. Robinson, which I take with far greater pride than being called a cougar (mainly thanks to the incomparable Anne Bancroft–I’d be her any day). I digress. The young guys that my wing girl and I met this weekend were astounded to find out we were not spring daisies of just-out-of-college age. Were they fabulously blind or fabulous liars? Maybe both? They told us we shouldn’t tell guys our real ages, since we don’t look it. What do you think? I’m not inclined to lie about that. Dishonesty upon first introductions just isn’t my style, even if I’m never going to see the yutz again.

Beyond the age issue, I’m frustrated feeling like I don’t have my mojo back. I wish there was a reset button, a clear function, in my mind, so I could move past mistakes more easily. My confidence is still shaky, like a wobbly baby deer (see my illustration…an early foray into iPad drawing) . Having that sort of handicap in the dating world is dangerous. Unscrupulous men can sniff out those vulnerabilities and use them to their advantage. What lessons have I learned to thin that herd? The good guys usually make eye contact; have wide, open smiles; engage in reciprocal conversation. The bad guys won’t look you straight in the eye; call their girl friends in front of you; and ask for inappropriate things in public places.


Why do I subject myself to the meat market clubs if I despise the glut of ruffians they contain? Because the joy I have when I dance is nearly as pure as my six year-old self, spinning endlessly to Rubber Duckie Disco, emanating from my Fisher Price record player. I lose myself in the music, the lights, and the moment. And maybe a couple of cocktails. Rubber duckie, you’re the one…you make bath time lots of fun…rubber duckie, I’m awfully fond of you…

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