How could I have gone so long without dancing? Why do we forget to have fun?

I went out to celebrate a friend’s birthday at a great Greek restaurant with attached bar. In the bar, there was a slick gent in his fifties, crooning Gordon Lightfoot hits while playing on a synthesizer. Silly me, I turned up my nose at his song selection and ignored him.

Then my friend dragged me in to dance–bad cheezy barfly music and all! Now, I love to dance but I’m not what you’d call a good dancer. I’m a little more Romy and Michelle than Janet Jackson. So it’s an exercise in trust for me.

Trust schmust. I danced my a** off! I danced until I couldn’t breathe! No partner. Who cares? I danced by myself, with other women’s husbands, with a lesbian or two! Those gals could boogie.

I could do this because I realized that I didn’t care. I didn’t care if people thought I was lame for dancing to Mambo # 5. I didn’t care if someone wished I’d stop shaking my butt in front of their table because I was putting them off their baklava. And it wasn’t just the gin and tonic. It was me, ready to dance.

Dancing is fun. Dancing is healthy. Dancing is something that doesn’t happen often enough in this world, at least not once you’re past your clubbing years. Why? Are only young skinny people supposed to dance, like it’s a performance for the public? We’re supposed to sit back and watch them have all the fun?

Kid, I’m of the disco generation. I was dancing before your mama got her first Easy-Bake oven! Make some room!