Stayin' alive in the laundry room
Disco isn't dead.
At least, not in my house, where my husband has transformed the laundry room into a miniature suburban discotheque, complete with strobe light, disco ball, and table for four. No more slogging in lines 10 deep for a Singapore Sling. No more waiting for guys sporting multiple neck chains and hairy chests to ask me to dance. No more suffering through bad remixes of ``YMCA" to shimmy to ``Stayin' Alive."
I can be Tony Manero dancing at the Odyssey every night. Just need to be careful not to crash into the dryer and send the stacks of folded towels tumbling onto the hi-fi and speakers.
Whenever I crank up the Bee Gees, their falsetto pipes blast me out of the laundry room and into the wild and crazy early '80s. Back then I boogied the weekend nights away at the Palace, the Metro, and Faces, sassing confidently around the dance floor with my black-rimmed eyes, 3-inch platforms, and big hair.
Aah, big hair. It required big maintenance. Between dance sets, I scurried to the ladies' room to tease my already teased coif and reseal it with the huge bottle of AquaNet I lugged around in my
``I just can't stop
Till my spark gets hot
Just can't stop
When my spark gets hot"
Alas, the Disco Era came to an end, and so, for a few decades, did my dancing days. Opportunities to kick up my platform shoes dwindled to weddings and holiday work parties, where I felt uncomfortable losing myself to rhythmic abandon in front of cousins and colleagues. My loosening skin demanded the anonymity only a dark, cavernous club could provide. Although I yearned to dance with yesterday's youthful ferocity, the culture of aging muffled my desire.
Recently I grew bored watching the various ``Law & Order" and ``CSI" incarnations, so I detoured through the movie channels and landed on the disco classic, ``Saturday Night Fever." It was the scene at the Odyssey where the crowd parts like the Red Sea and Tony bursts onto the dance floor, moving his smoldering body to the music in ways that seem both naughty and nice.
Then it happened.
Tony whispered to me from the television set, ``You should be dancing. I saw you at the Metro one night in '82. You can really boogie."
``Thanks, but that was a long time ago," I said. ``Besides, dancing is for young people."
``Julie, this movie came out in '77 and I still look pretty hot on the dance floor; age is irrelevant. Why don't you come to the Odyssey and give yourself another chance?"
Tony was right, and I knew it.
At first it was awkward finding my way back to disco the way I shimmied around the kitchen on the way to the fridge during dinner prep. But with my husband's help and a cobbled-together stereo system, Studio Spin Cycle was born and it all came back.
Morning, noon, or night, I strut my middle-age stuff in this musical safety zone with the fire of youth reborn. I clap my hands, swizzle my hips, point my index finger at the dropped ceiling, stamp my feet on the piles of lint, and wipe the perspiration off my brow. It's the only time in my fast-forward life that I'm completely lost in the moment. If there's a worry about money, I'll deal with it later. If there's a problem with work, I'll deal with it later. If there's a creak in my knee, I'll deal with it later.
Many tunes later.
But right here, right now, I'm dancing next to the itty bitty disco ball on the washer as fast as I can, trying to make up for lost time.
Studio Spin Cycle has given me permission to look foolish, to look cool, to look like a female Tony Manero sweating through her 40s. In this detergent-fragranced underwear zone, there are no right and wrong moves, only the honest, improvised ones my body creates as it grooves to the music. I may enter the discomat soiled by adult responsibilities, but I always leave clean, refreshed, and spinning with excitement.
When I danced in clubs as an ingénue, I danced to impress the audience and attract potential mates. When I dance in my disco as a middle-age woman, I dance to keep myself stayin' alive.
``Ah, ha, ha, ha, Stayin' alive. Stayin alive . . ."
Julianne Nardone lives (and dances) in Ashland. If you would like to share a slice of suburban life, e-mail Steve Maas at maas@globe.com, and please keep your diary to 700 words or less. 
