On The Fly: All She Wants To Do Is Dance, Dance, Dance

Anyone want to make a fast buck here? I think I've identified a large hole in the marketing-to-boomers market and the first one to fill it is going to be rich -- seriously rich, I tell you.

The problem that needs to be fixed is this: There is no place for midlifers to go dancing. No, I'm not talking about taking tango lessons with your husband because your therapist thinks it will reignite something long dead in your marriage. Nor am I talking about those Country-Western line dancing places where you're supposed to wear cowboy boots and a hat.

No, what I mean is some good-old-fashioned-get-down-and-boogie-until-you're-a-sweaty-mess-and-the-next-morning-hope-you-didn't-blacken-any-eyes-with-your-fist-pumps dancing. Admit it: That sounds kind of fun, doesn't it?

The sad truth is that my dancing days of late are limited to Bar Mitzvah receptions and my oversized shower. Occasionally, I throw a Best-Girlfriends-Only Dance Party on my deck. My kids prefer to go off on sleepovers those evenings. I think it's better for all involved if they do, actually.

But the reality is that mid-lifers don't have any place to go dancing and this is a sad state of affairs.

As my 47-year-old friend Veda Kaplan notes, nobody is letting us past the velvet ropes anymore. And for the record, Veda is a six-foot bombshell for whom many a velvet rope has parted.

Dancing, for me, has always been about just letting loose. In my 20s, I frequented gay clubs because that's where the best dancing was taking place and I saw no need to confuse the joy of dancing with the complications of dating. Dates were a movie and dinner; dancing was just for me.

For the record, I'm not a bad dancer and I don't believe that I look foolish at all. Probably more to the point, even if I do, I kind of don't care. I have a decent sense of rhthym and a real passion for loud, rocking music. With the one exception of my abysmal attempt to join the office hip hop class, I can't think of a time I didn't enjoy moving to music. (And for the record, had wine been served first, I suspect I would have hung in there.)

But nowadays all I want to do is dance, dance, dance. And I have no place to do it. What the world needs is a chain of dance clubs for midlifers, not another social media network.

On a recent family vacation to the Palm Springs area, we dined one evening at a place called The Nest. For those who don't hail from these parts, the Palm Springs area is known for two things: It's a gay haven and is also a major center for retirees -- older retirees who play golf and relate to streets named Buddy Holly Drive and Frank Sinatra Lane. Sun City Palm Desert alone has 5,000 homes and there are a gajillion other smaller retirement communities filled with people comfortable having their parks, schools and hospitals named after dead Republican presidents who shared their affinity for the area.

And The Nest is a perennial favorite. While the food wasn't The French Laundry (nor were the prices), the main attraction -- as noted in many of the TripAdvisor reviews -- is that this is where older people come to dance. They get all gussied up and start filling the place by 5 p.m. for the early-bird specials.

By the time the hot desert sun goes down, they're kicking up their heels and dancing the Lindy, or at least I think that's what it was. My teenage kids? Well judging from the stricken looks they wore, they probably wished they were on a sleepover. For now, I'm planning the next Best-Girlfriends-Only Dance Party on the deck. And here's what you know we'll be dancing to:

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