Dancing With The Stars

I love to dance.  When I’m in a good mood, nothing else but to dance like a hyper fourteen-year-old darting through the aisles of the grocery store striking poses and flinging her body into innocent bystanders and cereal displays will do (wait, you didn’t do that?  Oh, you were one of the “cool” kids who understood decorum).  The only differences are that now I have music that I can play it as loudly as I want and the cereal is in the cabinet.

 

 

I’m not particularly graceful and I don’t have great balance, despite my enormous feet.  The dog gets stressed out when I dance and nips at my hands when they windmill toward the floor and my husband thinks I’m insane. 

 

 

The kids, though.  The kids love it, for now.  And they don’t yell at me to stop dancing like they yell at me to stop singing.  In their defense, my voice is terrible.

 

 

We need a little more uninhibited dancing in our lives.  We all do.  I can’t hide the tears in my eyes when I read about terrible events in the paper in the morning, and I won’t be able to shelter my kids from those events forever, but I can always show them unfettered joy by dancing like a fool. 

 

 

Hopefully, I’ll be the crazy dancing lady at my grandkids’ weddings, with viral YouTube videos showcasing my awesome devil-may-care moves (or whatever format their space-age media takes) in my sunset years.

 

 

Take the edge off.  Dance like an idiot today.