My body moves, my feet tap, my shoulders twist, my arms fling,driven by the rhythmic pulse of sound, energizing me. Nothing boosts my mood faster than gyrating to a favorite song. I enjoy dancing with Mike because he has good rhythm and we know each other’s moves. After self-coaching (123 123 back-step) and stumbling our way into synchronous movement, we relax into our standby disco step, which is a basic swing. As long as we count aloud, the step works with most music. If the choreography is monotonous, I suggest a spin or turn.
Weddings and other events for dancing are rare. Because dance bar music starts at my bedtime, we don’t frequent those spots. We have broken out in dance in the kitchen when the music is right.
Watching television a few days ago, we observed couples doing just that, poignantly reminding me that dancing has faded away in this house. The years of family singing and bopping have disappeared. Other than some hustling at my 65th birthday, six years ago, moments of spontaneous eruption of dance in the past few years can be counted on one hand.
The part of dance most fun is when each partner is aware only of the other. Several years ago a man invited me to dance with him at a wedding. He was nimble, strong, and knew how to lead. With all the twirling and spinning, there was only time for me to concentrate on remaining upright. It was a once in a lifetime experience.
Mike and I both like to sing as we dance, but I sing to him. Although Mike sings quite nicely, his mind is on the music, not on me.
Mike and I could dance the down the hall. Any bouncing off the walls would be the result of protecting our knees as we climb the stairs. No floating on air, just hard breathing sending us to the couch to enjoy an episode of Midsomer Murders. Nevertheless, I am always up for dancing, even alone, as a celebration of life, of health, of movement, a way to take my mind off the tensions in the world. Turn the TV off. Dance.