Geriatry comes a-knockin’

Grannies - licentious

It’s official – I am past my prime. You know you’re well past your sell by date when you intentionally leave the house with a book in your handbag as you head out to a club. The book being the back up plan to staving off boredeom an hour or so into proceedings because either…

a) you don’t know any of the songs everybody is hollering to and, you don’t really care,
b) you find yourself complaining that the music is too loud and you can’t hear yourself think,
c) those shoes you thought were such a good idea when you left the house are giving you a backache, a headache and creating mutant bunions or, in the most unfortunate circumstances,
d) …all of the above!

A friend invited me out Saturday, and I was loath to go, coz nowadays a good book and my substantially pimped out futon (in the manner of Xzibit and his rides), a glass of Diet Pepsi and soulful music wafting out of the computer is my idea of a good night out. Here, annoyingly, you can’t leave the club at 3am coz there is no transport; the first train around 5.30 is your first chance of escape. People jump on that train like a fat chick on chocolate cake after a stint at the Fat Farm (I should know). So armed with the book in my bag, I headed out to the club.

Legend has it that white people can’t dance, I guess that’s because nobody has ever seen the Japanese version of dancing. It’s excruciating; needles-in-your-eyes or burning-coals-being-branded-into-your-skull painful doesn’t do justice to what passes for dance moves here (that they try to emulate from MTV). The Japanese version.

So of course now it’s up to a sister to represent and tear up the dance floor. But it is at this point that my joints decide they have other plans, and tolerating 5 creaking hours of abuse does not constitute part of their mandate. They know they should be at home lying down. So one thumping song later (incidentally Luda’s Move bitch get out the way etc), tail tucked between my legs, I got out the way, slinked into a corner and 4 hours later, left the club having worked my way through a couple of hundred pages.

I guess at some point I should express regret at no longer being able to keep up with my younger compatriots, but to be fair, I did my bit for the cause in my day, because hey, ndakambo representa. On a scale of 0 to 1 for representing, I was a 2. To the extent of being marked on the register at Circus every Thursday, Friday and Saturday.

So shove in the false teeth, bring forth the carpet slippers, the cane, the bifocal glasses, coz I am officially taking my first steps towards geriatry.

Hunched over, shuffling and proud.

15 Replies to “Geriatry comes a-knockin’”

  1. Ko aChic your skills are definitely on the decline – couldn’t you rope in some young stud to keep ya occupied?

    Or were there no mandingos up in thurr.

  2. Taking a book to nightclub is about the saddest thing I have heard in a long time. Why bother then?

  3. Kong, I don’t know you, so I am going to play nice. If the whole tone of my post didnt give you the impression that I know this already, well……

  4. ‘She’ needs a man like she needs a hole in the head. At no point do I remember bemoaning my single status. Lately. I think.

  5. Maybe a joint with some Old Skool will do the magic. JB remember how we used to rock the dance floor at La Dolce Vita with Robbie Tee doin his Old Skool thing.

    Maybe a nite out dancing some Old Skool will bring back your Circus days.

    REFER to a) you don’t know any of the songs everybody is hollering to and, you don’t really care,

    Remember how our parents always used to complain abt “modern music”. I am sure you getting to that stage – so stick to the 90’s!

  6. Maiwe-e, LDV was the shizzle, for rizzle dizzle my nizzle!

    Weekend Special by Brenda Fassie sistah, lemme know if you want the MP3 and I’ll hook you up, that will get you sorted out in no time.

    I also reccomend Groove Thang by Zhane, unoita bhoo.

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