Dancing Our Age?

The song comes on the radio and I feel a hip twitch. I run from the home office to the living room to be closer to the music, and the other hip twitches. My right foot hits the oriental carpet with a stomp, and then both feet hit the carpet hard – toe foot, toe foot. My heart lifts with the beat, and I scoot to the stereo and turn up the volume.

Rock and roll, baby.

Suddenly, I’m 20 again. College dances. I close my eyes and smell the spilled beer, the sweaty college boys, the perfumed girls. Ode to Joy. Old Spice. I see us, moving our hips back and forth, jumping up and down to the beat.

Laughing. Shouting. Wild and Free.

I open my eyes, dancing with a huge grin on my face. The dog hops up from his place in the sun to see what his crazy mistress is doing. He looks astonished, then runs over to me, jumping up as if he, also, wants to dance.

Then I glance toward the far wall. The mirror shows the scene. Middle-aged woman with doggy dancing in the middle of living room on a Wednesday afternoon. The college scene fades, my smile disappears. Where’s the cute 20-year-old? Who the hell is this freaky lady?

I turn my back on the mirror, order the dog to ‘Sit! and “Stay!” and I dance like crazy until the song ends.