Apparently I can eliminate '70s disco queen from my list of career options.

It's not for me. And here's how I know (even though in the shower I sounded a-w-e-s-o-m-e singing "Super Trouper." I'm so serious.) --

It's the shoes. They are a complete, red, glittery deal-breaker for someone who made it through the swingin' party without injury (I even danced in those things, people!), only to break my toe Monday morning during the high-risk "breakfast for the kids" maneuver. Not kidding -- I heard it snap and it's purple.

. . . . and it's the false eyelashes, which felt a little bit like I was just s-o-o-o sleepy I couldn't keep my eyes open.

tangent: As it turns out, Coleen and I were fully clothed when this picture was taken by the fabulous neighbor.

And it's a little bit about the fact that I am poochy in places that "70s disco queens" are not poochy. Hello, peri-menopause, you bitch. Love the jello shots, though!

Other people at the party were very clever with the costume ideas . . .

A cougar and a cougar hunter. She runs triathlons on a regular basis -- AND competes in Irish dance competitions all over the mid-Atlantic region. In case you weren't feeling inadequate.

"Clever" points for the Upper and Lower G.I. Get it?

We did get extra credit for showing up as a group in all our glamour -- it's hard to deny.

I just don't think I'm cut out to be a dancing queen, no matter how many times Meryl Streep begs me.