I don’t remember dancing—the memory thankfully faded like childbirth pain. I have the video, though. It’s become a family favorite. The camera pans across the audience, to three sweaty dancers frosted in pink and glitter sitting with their families, then focuses on stage right, on a middle-aged mom in neon legwarmers and a leotard to match, her hair in a side ponytail sticking straight out of her head, her bangs swept back with a matching neon sweatband.
The music starts—and this is where the camera work gets shaky due to the camera operator’s serious case of the giggles—and she taps across the floor, giving her front row boys a perfect view of her best Jazz Hands move. She shuffles and taps and kicks and dances the hell out of Donna Summer, and as she turns, twirls, the old parents—the women and men so old just like her—explode in laughter and wild applause as they get the first look at her backside, at the words Hot Stuff splashed across her butt.
Hot Stuff, indeed!
By: Birdie Jaworski
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