(Trigger Warning: This might be an extremely snarky post, if you are unhappy with your body, I advise to not read any further.)
I’m not one of the party crowd. More like hiding in a corner, watching people, than dancing up s storm. Or better, that used to be the case. I went to a party at the fire station – yes, this town is so cool, we party where they keep the big red engines – which was billed as an “Eighties Party”. I loooove the music from the 80s, so I was game. I’m usually not when it comes to events by the fire brigade, because, uhm, I don’t exactly “klick” with these people. The evening will reveal why.
First I had to decide what in the world I would wear. Thank the fashion gods that I opted for a nice pair of jeans, a white tank-top and my beloved faux leather jacket, and NOT something true Eighties, or worse, my ususal Sparkle Pony / Rainbow Worrier style, because… this is Suburbia. Even in that simple attire I was close to being overdressed. The Pear seems to be the average body type around here (Sir Mix-a-Lot would have been very happy). Pears with the tendency to dress in too tight pants and tops, too.
We felt like being transported back to on one of our school parties – everybody was standing along the wall, holding tight to his drink, and nobody was dancing. Of course not, you don’t go to a party to dance, do you? I felt sorry for the DJ, because the whole event was his idea, and he really is a nice guy with an excellent taste in music. I figured that somebody has to sacrifice their dignity and deflower the empty dance floor, so that others would feel encouraged to follow. I feared that I had to be this person.
My chance came in the form of “Total Eclipse of the Heart” – a song so right up my alley it’s not even funny anymore. Taking a cue from the Jimmy Fellon lip snyc battles I recently watched on Youtube, I decided, what the heck, let’s do it. I did it. Because I came to party and not to stand around. The man and I had fun being silly on the dance floor, I assume the others stared like we were mad, and the DJ took the cue to play all my favourite rock songs for the next three hours. I admit, rock music is not really dance music. But it’s the only form of music I can shake my tush to. Gimme guitars, gimme drums, and I’m happy.
A few followed our lead, but we had the floor still more or less to ourselves. And I’m not complaining, I mean, how often do you have a nice sound system, the lights, the right music – and the space to rock it out? I had fun!!! I could have danced through the night until four in the morning. Buuuuuut – okay, what now follows is extremly snarky. I usually don’t snark, but I’m still kind of shocked.
Apparently the Pears go to an Eighties Party and then are shocked to discover that they don’t play what I call contemporary German Aprés Ski Bullshit. Songs with texts bordering on nonsense, the same stomping rhythm everytime and the worst thing is, the songs stick to your brain like overly sweet pink chewing gum. So – they poked the DJ relentlessly, until he finally gave in. And BOOM – the dance floor was full. I was shocked. I mean, I have some very, very questionable music in my collection. Really. Bill Ramsey, Dschingis Kahn, even some swiss yodel group, more Meat Loaf than is healthy plus probably every cheesy Eighties Power Ballad under the sun. But. But. People ten years younger than me demanding Helene Fischer? That’s music my mother in law listens to!
Is that what living here does to you? Will I turn into a pearshaped, badly dressed shadow of myself, listening to bad german pop songs? Baking cake and gossiping about the neighbours? Watching ZDF?? *eyes the Kärcher warily*
Only over my dead body… Rock ‘n Roll forever!!!