Silly (Not Dirty) Dancing

I'm not a dancer.  I'd love to be.  I admire the grace and beauty of couples floating in an embrace over the dance floor.  I took ballet when I was a little girl.  I took tap for a while, too.  When I was in elementary school and my uncle was in junior high, disco was in fashion.  I remember Marty trying to teach me some of those moves from Solid Gold in the living room while the record albums played through on the stereo.  It was fun.  As I got older, it was enough to be able to pony and I was glad of that.  Still, inside me is the girl who wants to be gliding effortlessly around the room, skirts swirling, head laid to the side, every move fluid and feminine; I want to feel the music as my own heartbeat.

We dance in my house.  All THREE of us.  It used to be that Bruce and I would dance to a favorite 1940's tune (usually in the threshold of the room - I don't know why, and usually on a very squeaky floorboard so that the giggles set in before the song was through).  These days, we have to watch out for four little furry feet dancing around just inches away from us.  Sometimes one of us even scoops Natalie up into arms to be right in our embrace.  And, as always, there's that squeaky floorboard.  Our dancing is romantic in its own silly way - cheek to cheek to cheek.