Wanna Dance?

Becoming an adult in our society today, 

Most of us learn to dance, in some fashion.

Maybe not the old-fashioned Arthur Murray steps,

But at least the hold-and-sway we smile shyly at,

in junior high auditoriums to jazz clubs, 

beckoning younger and older ages to draw close.

No...I want to explore a different kind of dance

with a partner whose predictable unpredictability

can sweeten a romantic evening, or

ruin a family’s safety,

expand the sense of adventure in cultural exploration

or lead you down a path potentially dangerous, unforeseen.

Who’s the leader? Who follows in this dance?

Aye, my friends, that is the question!

My first dance in this was pretty predictable for a girl like me

I was maybe seventeen years of age, 

Old enough to know a little bit about it, yet underage.

I was risk-averse in my younger years, 

so the dance began with a wine cooler,

one. Split between four girlfriends out on a country road.

The dance opened anew in college, of course

This time, my first partner was a Peach schnapps, OJ, vodka swinger

incredibly sweet but wow did he pack a punch.

I was care-full, not a little afraid.

I do remember feeling good, though.

I belonged. Finally.

A Canadian lager next asked me out,

in the eyesight and hearing of my soccer team friends.

Moosehead was its name, which strikes me today as amusing.

It was gentle, a bit bubbly, shaky in hand only if one of many.

Mickey’s wide-mouth beer was a close second date in this venue.

Remember that one night in April 

when we spoke and learned

more about one another 

than anyone would have otherwise shared?

I still remember the embarrassment today,

if not the details, both with a wisened smile.

Seminary was by far the wildest and most frequent dance floor,

believe it or not. Folks becoming religious leaders, 

knowing their free-imbibing-dancing-days are numbered?

That they will have their wine bottles counted

and personal choices judged under a microscope?

Beer, tequila, wine and more asked me out

for those dances, my seminary dance-card full of punches. 

Most evenings. Certainly weekends. Relaxed inhibitions and

dances that got out of control for months, at least a year.

One night in particular where my ‘friend’ didn’t bring a glass.

Tequila straight from the bottle? so to salve his rejected male ego?

I rarely dance with tequila today, ever, even margaritas with salt.

Today, this dance-partner is much more refined, even dignified.

Both my husband and I get asked to dance, sometimes together,

sometimes as individuals. Rums have taken a shine to him, if not me.

Wine can be an easy waltz for both of us, with good salmon or steak.

Bourbon, or her spicier cousin, rye most often finds me a suitable partner,

as I find her. No carbs, which suits an active CrossFit life, 

more dedicated to fitness-health than I have ever known before. 

But she can pack a wallop, be a bit more seductive if you don’t monitor her.

Not unlike me, I suppose. She can flirt you into a bit of risk, if you wanna flirt.

Only one time can I remember not leading

In these moments of a tango, or waltz, or hold-and-sway:

a pandemic “pause” away from normal, away from community.

Cocktail hour? Sure! We’re not going anywhere, after all!

Wine with dinner too? Why the hell not?

Our dances never got wildly active, like tarantella or grunge slam-dancing,

but we were dancing in a new pattern, a different leader, amidst tough invitations.

America is teetering on her dangerous edges,

experiencing our first overt non-peaceful transition of power,

still not accounted for, still unperceived as the threat it is.

Black and brown bodies lie lifeless in the streets, 

facing resistance or mass-incarceration, refused suffering, reactive anger.

Increasing gaps between the horribly rich and desperately poor

hide in plain sight, befuddling and bemoaning in unequal measure.

My own rage is more obvious, ever present.

Traditions refusing to change. Sufferings increasing and neglected.

Entertainment is news, and news is a lie.

How much easier the world can seem, softened with a bit of haze…

How much more bearable do the challenges appear,

even as they promise most to

destroy our health,

alter our views, if

deaden the pain.

Something new always needs to stop the music, and start a new tune,

at least for me, my chemistry, my blessed freedom

from this particular dance-addiction.

Fitness community can reboot itself, when invited.

Sanity can reassert itself, remembering the graced and good TOO.

The beauty of the snow can remind us all of times to rest, to slow down

And spring is on her way, just around the corner, with sunshine beckoning

opportunities to walk to the preserve, spend time lying in the sun with friends,

and yes, chances to sit on the porch, in love, 

seltzer bubbling her sassy flavors

and bodies beginning to feel good and hopeful, once again.

Wanna dance? I can still hear most nights,

whether in the voice of my husband or simply my own voice.

Nah...even life today is too good to be diffused in any haze. 

Movement most mornings beckons more than any booze.

Feeling good in my skin and bones, after a full night’s sleep?

Priceless.

Not tonight, I say with a wisened smile.

Thanks anyway.