You're as old as my dad!

Biker men, big ones, full of testosterone, among other things, and lady bikers, (some who may also have been full of testosterone by the looks of them) swarmed to the Village of Lake George this past weekend. There was a Harley on every corner, leather on every ass (in some cases leather-wrapped ponytails), and a perfect amount of classless hoodlumism (I know I know... hoodlumism is probably not a word, but what ev).

With all this fantastic chaos, it was practically a requirement to go to the biggest biker bar and dance dance dance. So we did. And I was the DD. Don't mistake this for me not having a good time. I have as good a time sober as drunk, the experience is just a little different, and I feel better the morning after sans alcoholic beverages. But the great thing about a busy bar with out-of-towners is that you can be a little crazy, a little less inhibited, and have a whole lotta fun.

Packed with people, my little Honda, GiGi as I call her, chugged up the northway toward a rucus that could be heard across the lake I am sure. First to Christie's, where you can hear each other talk (most of the time) a group of us met up with some friends. We hung around with the younger crowd, people my age out doing the same thing, relishing in people watching, scratch that, BIKER watching, big difference, and enjoyed the acoustic stylings of a one man band who did covers the likes of Margaritaville and commented on the new Poison album that is strictly covers of very un-Poison-like songs. Wierd.

After an hour or so, the girls and I were itching to dance, and thus convinced the guys to head over to Duffy's, a bar with a decidedly older crowd, this cute red-headed cocktail waitress who happens to be my younger sister, and... a dance floor. Clutch. It was hopping. Not only did we make it in without a cover, but the band rocked. I ordered a water, and headed toward the dance floor.

There are not too many things I am vain about. In fact I tend to be pretty hard on myself about most things. But one thing I at first learned to embrace and then to glory in, is my hair. It falls in long, loose curls to the middle of my back and is the color of captured sunlight and new-penny copper. It is my best and favorite feature, and the ultimate dancing weapon. I flip it and run my hands through it while singing the words to every song, let it fall in my face and imagine I am a red-headed Jennifer Lopez whose moves and energy attract eyes around the room. I am not a great dancer, (though I always have fun, and to me that is all that matters) but with my hair down and the music moving my body, I become lost in a world of sensuality I rarely visit. Such was the case on Saturday night as I rocked out to classic rock covers with my friends and about 300 leather-clad bikers.

Apparently, on this particular evening, my sultry moves did attract some attention. Having gone to find my sister and my poison of choice, water on the rocks with a splash of lemon, a man approached my friends and asked if I had a boyfriend because he thought he saw me dancing with someone. Being the great friends they are, they gladly informed him that I in fact, did not have a boyfriend, the person he saw was just a friend and dating someone else in the group. The man left and I returned shortly thereafter to hear the story. Later in the evening, when I was once again away from the dance floor, he approached my friends and this time, asked my name. And again they informed him.

So as I come back to the dance floor, I hear my name in an unfamiliar voice and look to see who it could be, perhaps a young handsome man, with a biker bad-boy edge and a bod to boot. And then my eyes fall on him. A man, probably close to 55, with a graying beard, something of a potbelly, and bandana wrapped around what I am sure was a very bald head. He points to beckon me over. I cannot help myself and laugh aloud, shaking my head no in a "are you kidding?" fashion, and proceed to walk toward my friends. Luckily the sound of my laughter was drowned out by the music that at this time is just the radio. He follows me over and asks me to dance. I try to say no nicely... but he is persistent, "why not"..... and then, before I can control myself, the words are tumbling from between my lips as if in slow motion.... "beeecauuse you aaare asss ollllld as myyy daaaad." Ahhh! I had done it. In one fell swoop, I had probably just broken this man's machismo in a way only a cute 23 year old woman stating the obvious can.

"Ahhh, you're breaking my heart!" he said. "Do I really look that old?" What can I say to this?! There is no graceful exit, no option but to rub salt in the wound I had already created.

"I am 23. You could be my father." I replied while continuing to sip my water through a slightly chewed straw.

"Do I look that bad? You won't dance with me then? he pleaded

"l'll think about it."

"That's good enough for me" and he walks away yelling promises to find me when the band starts again. I breath a sigh of relief... he's gone. I turn back to find my friends, who are at this point getting a pretty good kick out of the situation. Some friends...

As the band starts setting up again, I see him coming from the corner of my eye and faster than I can plan an escape he is upon me, once again asking me to dance. What the hell, I'll never see him again, heck I'll never see anyone in this bar again. So I consent and before I know it, I am slow dancing to Free Bird. It was a hilarious. He ended up being very nice man, and to my surprise, saying he could be my dad actually turned out to be a conversation starter. I heard about his kids (that are older than I am), we talked about my red hair and Irish heritage, and slow danced high school style, turning in circles for the duration of the song. We got some pretty funny looks, probably because I was laughing the whole time (it is my response to pretty much every mildly uncomfortable situation) and I definitely did not look like a biker. Not to mention the fact that I was probably 30 years his junior. But it really was fun and something I am almost proud of myself for having done given the fact that I had not an ounce of alcohol in me. And at the end of the song he gave me a bearded kiss on the side of the cheek and thanked me for the dance. Initial reaction aside, it was an amusing adventure for me. He was a perfect gentleman and I got a kiss on the cheek with no funny business. What more could a girl ask for? :)