Dance as though EVERYONE is watching…outfit faux pas

Having been away dancing this weekend it’s bought to mind some utterly mortifying moments in my dancing life…

For the muggles that aren't perhaps aware – I do a lot of Jive and blues dancing. The best way to imagine this is the film Dirty Dancing – from the fun daytime dancing (minus kangaroo hops) to the down and dirty blues dancing they do after hours. Even the teeny chalets they all stay in are the same, plus the sexy Patrick Swayze character ;) We have lots of those oh yes. Shame that when I get to dance with those types things start to crumble…and disaster befalls.

It was a few years ago that my friend and I were at Southport (a dancing weekender) having a proverbial whale of a time. We’d danced, we’d drank, we’d laughed, we’d worn saucepans on our head and decided it was so much fun we’d have a whole party around it next year…there wasn't a lot left to do that weekend but dance blisters onto our feet. I put on a cute little boob tube top (with a strapless bra naturally), a pair of jeans and went out for some nice daytime dances.

Things went so swimmingly at first.

I had a few good dances, got my confidence up and asked someone my friend had suggested as ‘one of the good ones’. He smiled. I smiled. He held out his hand. I took it. We danced. It went beautifully – there was gliding, and nice returns, and leans and break hitting oh yes...

Then suddenly out of nowhere his arm came down along my side. And some desperately lonely fabric in the boob tube responded to his call and followed his arm down and very much below my boob. Uncannily the bra then decided it didn't like being left out in the cold as it were, and followed suit. Which left me with one boob happily bobbing about the place on the dancefloor. In front of about 100 people.  

This would still have been rescueable. If I’d noticed. But I didn't. I really really didn't  I only noticed when I saw a look of horror on my until then quite lovely looking dance partners face. I followed his gaze downwards and instantly wished I had a piercing with which to at least partly justify exposing myself to him ten minutes before lunchtime a la Janet Jackson style.

I hastily mumbled an apology and grabbed every piece of that bloody awful boob tube and traitorous strapless bra and hoisted it all back upwards. But to make matters worse instead of relinquishing his grip on me to let me escape with a scrap of fabric and a complete lack of dignity, he carried on dancing! Perhaps to prove he was a bigger man than to let the sight of one boob before lunchtime stop him from finishing a dance. So amidst scandalous glances from the rest of the room and a top and bra that I had no faith in anymore and was therefore waiting to drop like a hat at any moment we finally finished the dance. Thank Christ.

I think I wore a polo top over a strappy vest with a jumper that evening.