Dancing with Myself

When I was little, I would lock myself in my room with my purple boom box and dance in front of my mirror for hours. Complete with wardrobe change. I was awesome. When I was teeny tiny, I had a talent for entertaining our guests from the heights of our brick fireplace with renditions of Captain and Tennille's Do That to Me One More Time. It never occurred to me that turkey baster wasn't really a microphone.

These are some of my happiest childhood memories...dancing with myself. Even as a younger adult, I occasionally danced around my house and called it exercise. Somewhere along the way I became embarrassed, despite no one watching. Age, it's a buzz kill. 

Or maybe not. If NKOTB can make a comeback, anything's possible.

Last weekend, while painting, I caught myself dancing -- and I mean full on pirouettes -- from the foyer to the kitchen. The hardwood floors in my new home make sliding Risky Business-style quite simple for even the most rhythmically challenged.

It started with painting (heaven help the walls). Then it progressed to dancing with the Swiffer while cleaning on Sunday. I even tried a new little twist and skip move while cooking dinner the other night. And then there's three minutes ago. Walking down my staircase (ok, standing there like it's a stage) with my iPhone as a microphone belting out Whitney Houston's Greatest Love of All...having just come off a conference call with a client.

It feels good. Like, really good. Dancing with myself. Although these days, Scott and Gizmo have handfuls of free fun tickets, and so do my neighbors who can see through my wide open wall-to-wall windows. They must think I'm insane.But I have no shame. No matter what they take from me, they can't take away my dignity.

So now I can stop worrying about what to put in that space between the kitchen and the living room. It's been making me nuts since we moved in. But now I know.

It doesn't need anything but a disco ball.

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