Wednesday, February 23, 2011
I Dance Alone, Roller skates of Wonder
I don't remember if I've shared this on the blog before, but I love to dance. Like LOVE to dance. If I were a crack head, dance would my rock. And if I had my way, I would be all skinny and tweaked out and rocking in the corner from overexposure to the pure awesome of my dance rock habit.
I dance like a lunatic, like an animal set free from a cage. I dance until my clothes are soaked through with sweat and my hair is curly and sticking up in a white girl afro and my eyeliner runs. There have been many times--upon exiting a club--when I was asked if I'd been crying. No. Not crying. DANCING, mother-effer! Like people were meant to dance. Fierce and wild and uninhibited.
But despite all that, I hardly ever dance. I've been twice in the past seven years. Twice. Because a grown woman can not go out to a club--even with girlfriends--and dance like a crazy person and not attract a certain type of attention. I am a married woman, I don't go out to dance to meet men. I actually don't even like dancing with men, even my husband. I like to dance alone. By myself. Me and the music, that's it--maybe a girlfriend or two in the vicinity in case I need to squeal loudly when a good song comes on and don't want to look like too much of a dork (as if dancing by myself like a lunatic wouldn't have accomplished that already).
But obviously, I am in the minority in this, and therefore--as I'm sure you girls know--the few times I go out, I end up fighting off men trying to hump my leg for half my evening, which puts a damper on the experience.
So...I've pretty much quit going out. It wasn't hard to do. I have a demanding job and two small children, and my few girlfriends in Arkansas who liked to dance also had small children and demanding jobs and not enough time to spare for fun. And now, in my new home town I have no friends, so there you go, *slap, slap of the hands*, all chances of going out to dance finished. Out the window.
Good-bye soul friend. Good-bye joy. Good-bye musical-body cell connection and awesomeness.
I have to admit I got pretty bummed out about this a month or so ago. I sat there thinking to myself: "Self, you're 33. You've got to get out there and shake that groove thing before you loose it. When you're 54 and can't physically dance for 5 hours straight, you are going to look back on your life and this is going to be the one BIG thing that you regret." (That, and not finding a way to have my own goat herd, which I really, really want in a really, really bad way. For real. Really.)
So I thought and thought about other things that make me feel like dancing. Judging from this picture, it makes other people feel the same way:
(No, that isn't me and My Old Man. Though he would totally roller skate in his man-panties for me. Because he is that loving and awesome and unashamed.)
Rollerskating. Roller. Skating! The wind in your hair, the loud music, the flashy lights, the feel of the wheels doing that weird thing they do when you're cross-over stepping and going so fast to the right that you start to go left?
So I took 6 roller skating on Sunday and we had a blast! It was his first time, so I spent most of the afternoon holding hands with him and having my arm jerked from my socket--and GOD am I sore. Still. So sore. Ouch.--but it was still magnificent. The few laps where I got to go around fast were heavenly. And the other skaters where all kinds of kick-ass groovy. There was a 14 year old girl in rainbow feather bell bottoms who is pretty much my new hero. She skated for three hours all by herself. Dancing and throwing up her arms and kicking up her feathered pants. She had no shame. She skated like a crazy person, like an animal who doesn't even know what it feels like to be in a cage. So free and happy and not giving a good-god-damn what anyone thought of her. I never would have been that brave at 14. But I'm going to be that brave at 33.
If I get my work done this week, The Old Man and I are going on a skate date. I told him I want to skate for the entire 5 hour fun skate. He laughed. I did not. I also told him I would be wearing something obnoxious and fun that involved scarves. He didn't laugh. But he hugged me, and said he was glad. And then I cried a little.
Love. Roller skates. Wonder. I can't wait for Saturday!