The Dance of the Divine

As I enter the clearing at the top of the universe, I have to repeat to myself, you wanted this, you asked for it, you wanted this, you asked for it.  And yet, even in this moment, I still fear my own truth.

I love that word, not Truth as you might have expected, but the word, Still.

Still.

For I know I must sit still long enough to receive it, that which is my truth.

But sitting still is not easy for me.  I have a pattern, created very early in my years, of growing tired of things, places, people and circumstances.  My pattern is to let them go. Run Jenny Run.  Run like the wind.  Change is needed to fuel me and I am hungry for change.

Many friends, husbands, relationships, jobs, goals and dreams have succumbed to this dance of mine.  It is a ten year cycle.  For each, it is ten years - then done.  I only very recently stopped to count the number of instances in relationship to the number of years for each and I was duly startled.  It is clearly ten years. That's pretty much all I am good for.

Except for my children and a precious few who have survived, circumvented or otherwise put up with the faults known as my ten year limits.

I have always counted myself blessed with bountiful friends, more than any one person should deserve but this realization has awakened me to my truth.  I can be difficult, feisty, sometimes mean, but that is the armor I have used for all these years to drive the chafe from the wheat.

As I slide head first toward 50, I don't care for trivialities.  I don't cotton to a huggy, kissy kind of emailish, girlfriendy type of love. I need to know the people I carry with me into this last 50 years (God willing) of my life are the ones who will listen to my stories over and over again and wipe the shit off my ass-ignation when I've crossed yet another line. These people need to get me and most importantly, they need to know I get them. I've got them. I will hold them and wipe off their ass-ignations as well.

I have met or rekindled some relationships with true angels recently, and I have been awakened to the power of selfless love, sacrifice and bravery.

Robyn - meeting you in our girl's kindergarten class - how could I possibly have known you would reveal yourself to me in a time of my greatest need. You are the epitome of the belief that Australians are the nicest people on earth. Oprah said it, so it must be true and I love you - you are a divine Goddess.

Megan - strong, tough bitch, survivor, Amish in all the right ways, not Amish in all the right ways, loving and supportive. You are family and I am proud to be with you as we gather up our strength and conquer our worlds. Never lose touch with your power. Harness it and face your challenges head on but don't ever forget, I will always be here for you, as long as you let me borrow your cool jewelry.

Lacey - amazing mom, truly.  The best I have ever seen.  You let your brilliant son go off and sit with the big kids because that is where he finds his truth; yet you, like so many really good mothers, never lose sight of him. He is a challenge, just as I have experienced with my own but your calm balances him. You have risen to the top baby girl.  Stay the course. I love your man and your boys.  You have done well, your dad is proud of you too.  I can see his spirit in both of those boys.

Nick - So much to overcome but equal parts brilliant mind and loving heart to drive you through. Keep your eye or perhaps both eyes on the life you want. You are perfectly formed and made to be exactly who you are by God's own hands. So young still but so mature.  My kids all told me you reminded them of their dad's fiance's younger brother who is gay.  They don't know Ryan is gay.  Their dad would never allow them to know that. So essentially, their opinion was formed based on pure universal intuition. What that tells me is - fuck the conservative right wing, anti-gay, mostly closeted homosexual naysayers.  If kids can see it, then it is real. But you and I knew that already as does your dad.  You are loved.

Debbie - you are in my mind's eye, the utmost of the Divine Goddesses along with Betty Sue and yes, even your mom, my beloved Aunt Sarah.  I know there is bickering and a feeling that you are the one left to handle everything but I witnessed that legacy being passed down to you.  I remember your mom showing up to visit Granny every night on her way home from work. Then I remember you driving your mom to work every day and coming with her to visit Granny every night. Adding to that burden, I recall you picking me up and driving me to work at the age of 14, exposing me to the corporate environment and ensuring your employer I could run the front desk and handle the mail.  God, how I loved that summer. YOU made it all happen, you gave me the confidence at such a young age to know I could handle anything.

You have to face it, you are the one who stepped up to take responsibility when it was handed to you but you also have to remember, when it comes to those you cannot help, you need to let go. Calls from family who have gotten themselves into trouble are not your responsibility.  Don't feel as if it all falls on you because you must replace your mom. You can choose to tough love those people who may be taking advantage. Doing things that go against your judgment will make you bitter.  Helping people who struggle with addictions will only keep them addicted.  Be happy my beautiful cousin. You have done more than anyone else in our family can claim.  You have raised two children who will not go down those paths to destruction.  YOU did that. My mom always used to tell me how proud she was of you to raise your kids the way you did.

And trust me when I say, she never said that about anyone else, not even herself.

You are my hero. Yes, we have both made some bad choices in our lives, with respect to love and relationships but we seem to keep the ultimate prize in mind - that of the well being of our children.  So please be happy for all you have. Be grateful for Megan and Jeremy's goodness for that is the ultimate true test of a mom.  You have raised good people who will go on to raise good people. If you do nothing else in your life, that is enough for have broken a chain that was wrapped around your neck at birth and you have set free a new regime that will effect generation upon generation to come. As I said, my hero.

I hope you can visualize your burdens and blessings the same. My mom loved you and had a special place in her heart for you.  I obviously loved you, following you around in my childhood and cherishing every moment with you. Now I love Megan and Jeremy and I see my kids growing up to love them too. Megan opened her home to us and taught us to have conversation instead of TV.

And your son, who is preparing to welcome his first child, thought enough of us to sneak some money into my purse so I could spend a little more on the kids while in Oklahoma.  I found it, asked Megan about it, cried, made Megan cry but then believed her when she hugged me and told me how much all of you love all of us.

When I took the kids to Celebration Station, I told them this was money Jeremy gave us because he loves us, you all love us. It is hard for me to accept handouts.  I know that is why Jeremy secretly placed it in my purse, for my stubborn pride would have prevented accepting it.  He and Shelbi have a baby coming for goodness sakes. I can't believe I used to change that boy's diapers.

It is true in that the subtleties of love speak the loudest.

This is my truth. I know who I love. I know who loves me (us). And that is all I need.

To Amanda, Meghan, Cerese, Terese, Penny, Kim, Katt and countless others I wasn't able to see on this trip, please know I love you.

Standing at the top of the universe makes it so much easier to see. I love my Burt (Bird) and precious few others for it is not quantity but quality that makes up the Dance of the Divine.

And for those of you who have known me more than ten years and continue to dance in my circle, God bless you for I know my expectations are well beyond any reasonable divine expectation.  And for those I have driven away, please know this is not about you.  It is my truth and mine alone. But we shall dance nonetheless.

Shake shake shake, shake shake shake, shake your bootie, shake your bootie.

So much more to say about my trip back to Oklahoma City last week but for now, shaking by bootie seems to be an appropriate end.

The Light Comes From Within

I chaperoned my son's very first middle school dance last night. I'll be honest. I volunteered, not to keep an eye on him, but more to study the rituals of the 6th through 8th grade crowd. Yes, I was all of these at one time in my life and I lived through those years with my older son but I've lost touch with what "they" are like today.  Watching their Facebook posts have piqued my interest and pulled the trigger of my protective instincts.  I wanted to be there to infiltrate them, to study them like Dian Fossey in the deepest part of the jungle. To learn their language and befriend them.

Some things never change. Middle school kids are still the same physically, okay maybe the boobs are a little bigger and the dudes are a tad taller but the awkwardness is still there. They walk as if they haven't grown into their bodies. They do not seem aware of the space around them so they bump into each other a lot. They mostly travel in crowds, girls all holding hands and locking arms - guys with their hands in their pockets, looking cool and aloof.

I had a station to work for most of the night, which gave me the opportunity to observe the kids meandering back and forth from the food area to the dance area. I was particularly struck by a fair skinned girl with glasses and a lovely little dress. She moved on a circuit at lighting speed, gathering food, sitting for a few minutes to consume, circling the food area then walking to the dance area for approximately 10 minutes before returning to start the whole thing over again. Each time she sat down with her food, she chose a different spot, never siting by the same person twice.  Sometimes she sat next to people, other times she sat across from them, facing them head on. She never spoke to another student, nor did I notice any student paying her the slightest bit of attention. It was as if she wasn't there.

In addition to her glasses and cute dress, she wore something else. She carried the most excited look upon her face accompanied by an ear to ear grin that never left her. Here she was in middle school girl hell. Not one friend to be found in a sea of boys and girls all hanging in their tight-knit packs. I kept my eyes open to see if there were any other girls without friends, determined I could find her someone to hang with. I even asked my son if he knew her, hoping he could tell me who her friends were.

Finally, as she was passing by me on her circuit, I stopped her. She happily engaged me in conversation, first in English and then in Dutch. She explained she was born in Amsterdam but has lived here for the last six years. She doesn't understand why people in America refer to her home country as Netherlands when it is clearly THE Netherlands. She spoke for ten minutes telling me the exact number of inches her water bottle stuck out of her coat pocket. I asked if she had any friends here. She pointed a few out as I watched them walk past her without so much as a glance in her direction. I then asked her the question I had to know.

You look like you're having a blast. Why are you so excited to be here? The answer was simple, almost like she was silently prefacing it with a Duh.  She said, "I get to be away from my parents for a few hours".

I always think of us, the human species, as being naturally inclined to want companionship. Many people cannot go to a restaurant or movie by themselves for fear of the stigma or shame of being alone. They worry what people are thinking, doesn't she/he have any friends? That's exactly what I thought of my little Dutch friend and I'm ashamed for thinking it.  Here was a girl so comfortable in her own beautifully pale skin, she didn't need anyone. By middle school standards, I'm certain she is viewed as peculiar. But that's okay because she is intrinsically cool with her pretty dress, her bottle of water and the opportunity to be away from her folks for a few hours.

It reminds me of the Tanya Davis song about being alone. I can eat in a restaurant alone, I can go to a movie alone but to go to a club and dance, I'm not there yet. However, I am feeling inspired and lifted up by this 11 year old girl who walks her own path, over and over again, with the most delightful smile upon her pretty little face. She lights up the room, even when nobody is noticing.

Good Friends Will Go Anywhere

Even though she was slightly apprehensive, my friend Margaret agreed to come with me on my birthday outing to Ravinia, an outdoor music festival just north of Chicago. We were going to see the amazing guitar duo Rodrigo y Gabriela. That's her on the left.

Notice, she is wearing her St. Christopher pendant. I usually see her with a lovely diamond necklace. On this night, she felt she might need the patron saint of protection on her side.

And she was mostly correct.  I drove us down there with a large tumor sticking out from my tire and almost ran us out of gas by not paying attention to that big yellow light blinking on my dashboard.  That's Kris on the right.  Kris is not afraid of anything. Thank God she came because she kept us from getting lost at least 16 times and she solved the great, enduring mystery of why my chair wouldn't fit in its bag while her chair had loads of room left over. Duh.

Ravinia oversold this concert in a brutal, feeling like you're being herded to your death, kind of way. We parked off site and waited for our bus. While in line, we unfolded our chairs and started to snack on our picnic goods. Once we arrived, it was necessary to step over and sometimes on people to find a place to sit. We squeezed ourselves in, pulled out our wine, food and patchouli candle and commenced to enjoy the serene beauty of the last days of a Chicago summer.

The girls, of course, had the sense to tell me we needed to leave early to avoid the long bus lines but I wouldn't listen. I was the birthday girl and I was staying until the very last perfect chord had been played.  Big mistake.  Huge. We spent the better part of an hour chasing taxi cabs.  Actually, I chased them while on the phone trying to give the dispatcher our location. The girls just continued to walk in the direction of a main road, which is what one would typically do in Chicago if wanting a cab.  Finally, our Serbian cabbie arrived. He didn't understand a word of my broken Spanish or much of my English come to think of it.  He indulged us with something in Serbian. We understood the words crazy and taxi.

Even though it looks highly suspicious, I swear they were not holding me up here. I was doing my signature sexy side head tilt. We made it to my SUV and headed out for more fun in Chicago. Again, it was Kris who saved the day be finding us the perfect little club. Relaxed, older crowd - great dance band and pool table.

It was the kind of bar where you get to know everyone else there in an instant. I took notes from various couples, patrons, band members, bikers, golf pros - all telling them I was working on research for my book.  That was actually true. I think I even helped the golf pro to get over his ex-girlfriend and agree to start dating the girl he had just made out with the night before. They were a cute young couple.  They deserved a chance at love. I love the irony - here I am doling out relationship advice like Oprah while I'm sporting a hole in my heart the size of one tall Armenian.

Margaret and I played pool with some bikers. My partner let me sit on his bike as we were leaving. Those pictures will not be posted for your purview, nor do we need to see the ones with the enormous chess pieces in the hotel lobby. I think Margaret and I thought we were Vanna White, the way we were posing with them.  After all the activities, we talked, as girls will do, about the meaning of life and all - just before we passed out from exhaustion, exhilaration and the excitement of another year gone by for me.

Margaret has been divorced for a year now. It was a bad ten year run she had. She is free and just now starting to emerge from her shell. She is a great teacher for me in the divine art of being alone. She has built a warm, colorful existence with friends, family, career and travel.  And, she stepped out beyond her comfort zone with me to be there for my birthday, armed with St. Christopher, St. Kris and a picnic basket feast for the God's.

The next morning, she looked at me with her deadpan delivery and said, "yes well, happy birthday, I know I feel a year older today." That's okay, she's only 40 and truly, has the best years of her life waiting just around the corner. Thank you ladies - with all my heart, thank you.

Good Friends, Going the Distance

Does This Wine Taste Campy to You?

Last week, my friends were doing everything in their considerable power to get me out of the house.  I had the most tempting invites. Beach parties, bands playing, festivals, promises of girl time - no boys allowed.  They knew what I needed.  They have been worried about me suffering so, refusing to let go of my pain - even some would say, wallowing in it.  On Wednesday, I spent hours getting ready to go out, not because I was carefully applying my makeup.  It took me hours because I kept changing my mind.

Finally, I walked out the door around 8pm. I arrived at the State Fairground venue where one of my favorite bands was playing but I couldn't find the stage. With my girlfriend trying to talk me there, I began to get frustrated, the hurt was bubbling up inside and I started to cry.  


What am I doing here? I'm not ready to be around actual people yet.

She then handed the phone to a security guard in the hopes of him giving me better directions.  That's all it took, one smug man's voice and I was on the way back home. I tried again on Thursday but never made it out the door. When Friday rolled around, the plan was to attend a lakefront festival, taste of the city event, with live music and a huge bonus, it was not too far from my house.

I can do this.  I just have to get there and if it sucks, I can come home early and still catch The Ghost Whisperer on TV, pathetic but true.

My most persistent friend, Jodes, would accompany me. She knew exactly how to handle things, letting me know I could talk about "him" if I chose but it was okay if I didn't want to talk.  She was there either way. We spent the first hour of our night on the phone with US Cellular tech support. Somehow, we had both inadvertently attached a speed dial to our ex-husbands and have been persistently purse dialing them. Neither one of us could figure out how to get it off.  To our credit, it took tech support the better part of that hour figuring it out themselves.

Finally, meandering into the festival, we walked up and down the beach, meeting old friends and new friends and elderly men who were retired military gentlemen, and married men who were misbehaving. Growing tired of that in a hurry, we decided to stop in a little winery on the outskirts of the festival. We spent the next hour in the company of two brothers, owners and proprietors of Two Brothers' Wine. They looked just like this picture from their business card, except you have to imagine them both with Hulk Hogan style blond mustaches.

They served up their unique blends from exceedingly peculiar grapes along with their stories.  Henry was the winemaker, brother Joe was a mess, somewhat akin to the Jim character from Taxi.  We were beguiled by them. They told us the story of their most popular wine, which comes out in the fall, just in time for hunting season. It's called Deer Camp wine and it is made from the tiny wild grapes that grow on their land up north. I'm certain we saw it fermenting in their homemade jugs lining the back wall of their storeroom.

When this wine was in the development phase, they mentioned it to one of their customers, we'll refer to her as one of those "ladies who lunch". Her disdain for everything related to hunting was immediately apparent when she supposed they were going to include a buck with a nice large rack on their label.  She went on to straight out call them chauvinistic pigs. Not ones to take such an insult, they utilized the services of Henry's son-in-law, a graphic designer, to come up with a label that would truly represent who they were.  The result is the label above, featuring a lovely doe, with a nice large rack, ever so gingerly balancing her glass of wine within her hooves.  After all Joe said, we are not chauvinistic pigs.  We're just pigs.

Jodes and I purchased a bottle of wine, then decided it was time to dance. We kicked off our shoes, buried our feet in the sand and made our way to the front of the stage, oh and did I mention, in the pouring rain. We danced and sang and hugged. I must have thanked her at least 236 times for getting me out of the house to have this experience. Two gorgeous young men started dancing with us while several others scooted in to make their plays.  We were drenched. Jodes asked me to let my hair down. It was wet and wild and I was free and without pain. There it was, this beautiful young man, the better looking of the two, and he was interested in me. But all I wanted to do was dance in the rain.

When the band finished, we excused ourselves from the opportunity in front of us. I would later be admonished for this when it was explained to me that younger men will give you great sex and expect nothing in return.  Why the hell didn't somebody tell me this before?  Oh yeah, I tried that already. Didn't work so well.

As we were making our way out, we said goodbye to one of our friends who was talking to a nice looking guy. He flirted with me and I flirted right back. He thought I was feisty, I told him he couldn't handle my feisty. As we left, he asked for my number - but I simply walked away, arm in arm with my good friend. I think we might have actually been skipping.

Later I found out this flirty guy who asked for my number is married, has cheated on his wife many times, been kicked out and now was back trying to make things "work" with her. Oh, there it is again - that familiar pain.  Not for me, not for him, but for her, the wife.

Yet how refreshing it was to spend a night fixing our phones, skipping arm in arm and meeting Henry and Joe who somehow managed to restore the reputation of men by being exactly who they are. Pigs who appreciate a nice large rack. It was every bit as refreshing as dancing in the pouring rain.

Here with are with the one and only, Joe.

The Little White Cloud

My mom passed away in March, 2007 from breast cancer. In the ten years leading up to her death, she endured the loss of her youngest son Mark, her beloved sister Lila who was also her best friend, the love of her life (my dad) and finally, her eldest son, Robby. In the immediate days following her passing, I poured through her photos and writings, discovering a woman I barely knew. I was dramatically swept into the formative years of the woman that would one day be my mother.

Her later years were defined by grief; though you never saw her outwardly mourn. You could see the hurt in her eyes. There was a dullness to them letting us know that a considerable part of her spirit had died along with her loved ones. She wrote this poem on January 27, 2003, just one month after losing Robby.

Footsteps on the carpet
Loud and Clear
They are mine
No one else is here

Squish, squish, squish
Rings in my ear
The constant reminder
No one else is here

Where are they now?
Where will I be?
Unanswered questions
Wish I were free.

Free from the pain
What have I done?
Loved them too much?
Need the sun.

We all take a great deal of solace knowing that she is free from the pain, with those she dearly loved, and that she has once again found the sun. I was estranged from my mom for those last few years leading up to her death. In my eyes, she was so consumed with caring for the dying, she forgot she still had someone in her life who was living. I left Oklahoma in large part to escape the death march that stampeded through our family. After being with both dad and Mark as they passed on, I couldn't handle one more and I knew Robby was already on his way. Mom always understood this and assured me that we all have our "thresholds of pain". For instance, she wasn't able to sit with dad when the life support was shut off because it exceeded her threshold. She waited in the family room and later told us she knew when his spirit left his body because she felt him pass through her.

Looking back, it is clear to see she never recovered from the enormity of her losses. She was depressed and unable to embrace joy in her life. To this day, I feel a sense of being robbed for not having a mom in my adult life. When I see other women my age shopping with their mother's, my heart hurts. I know she allowed herself to die, perhaps she even wished it upon herself. What other reason could account for her ignoring the lump. Why else would she refuse to tell the doctors about it even after all other tests had been exhausted and no cause for her symptoms had been found? The cancer had metastasised into her bones. She was literally aching to her bones with pain so intense she could barely breath but she still wouldn't tell them she had a lump, a very large lump, visible to the naked eye. She had been living with the dying for so long, she was now dying to live with them again.

Mark Twain once said, "Forgiveness is the fragrance the violet sheds on the heel that has crushed it." I do not suffer any grudges against my mom. I miss her but I am not angry with her. On the contrary, I have journeyed back in time to meet the woman I barely knew. This is the woman I have come to know and love. She was vulnerable and innocent and yet fiercely strong and protective of her loved ones. She had to work extra hard on me, her only daughter, to "make me a lady" when all I wanted to do was act like my brothers. Morals, honesty and integrity were as much a part of her fiber as the love of her children and family.

She was a stunning beauty with piercing blue eyes. She played the guitar, the violin and the steel guitar. Her extended family members enjoyed coming to their small, white house behind the school every Friday night for a family hoe-down. They nearly all played an instrument. She dreamed of playing the cello but her family could not afford to purchase one. It was during this period of time she discovered what she called the “neverland of music lovers”. She had also heard it referred to as “another time and place”. She writes, “I was able to transport myself to this place with various artists. It has gotten me through many hours of intense pain”. Music was her salvation.

At the age of 17, she used to tag along with her sister, Lila, to a club called The Little White Cloud. The sisters enjoyed dancing and were known to be quite good at it. Mom marveled at her older sister’s ease and grace on the dance floor. They loved taking the free dance lessons to learn the hot new Latin dances of the time. It was during one of these outings, when her life would take an unexpected turn.

I convey this in her words: “The chemistry between us could not be denied. He was 24, tall, slender, tan and had the most beautiful hair styled in a duck tail. He was wearing blue suede shoes. He was, to use 1950’s terminology, ‘a cool cat’. He had hands that totally fascinated me and over the years I came to the conclusion they were a little magic. From the time of our first meeting, he became the center of my life. We eventually married and of this union, four children were born.”

Now of course, legend has it that Grandma Bea attempted to shoo this ‘cool cat’ right off her front porch when he came a callin’. After all, she was only 17. We have never been able to get a confirmation on this but after seeing the photos of dad during those years, we’re fairly certain it is an accurate historical account. In spite of Grandma Bea’s wishes, mom loved him. As we have come to know, when Joyce Macdonald loves somebody, there ain't gonna be no stopping it.

I wish I had a little more time with mom now so I can ask her more questions about those early years. I want to know what she was thinking in every picture. Did she realize how beautiful she was? Doubtful, she was too humble to think much about her looks, but she was indeed quite eye-catching. I want to know what color her dresses were in all those black and white photos. I want to ask her how she managed to curl her hair like that and what color of lipstick was her favorite. I want to see her again with these new eyes of mine. But most of all, I wish I could help her see herself through my eyes. The eyes that now see clearly the wonder of this woman.

As she was slipping away from us, we all gathered around her to give her our love. Earlier that morning she had whispered, “where we goin’, where we goin’?” We imagined she was talking to dad or Lila or one of the boys. We knew she was scared so we assured her and gave her our permission to go. As she drew in for her final breath, I asked her to look for Lila on the dance floor. I told her they would be dancing together soon. I pictured them standing under a sign reading, The Little White Cloud. I want to imagine it is Lila who first greets her as they find themselves on a dance floor, listening to the heavenly music, feeling once again transported from her pain………when in walks a tall, slender, tan man with beautiful, messy hair and magic hands.

Just as he had done so many years before, he immediately captures her, taking her in his arms. They are dancing. She is home. With a gentle spin on the dance floor she becomes aware of another person in the midst. It is Mark. He is healthy, strong and handsome with that beautiful smile on his face and a camera in his hand. With the second turn, she notices the heavenly melodies, stirring at her heart are being played by Robby. He is backed up by her daddy and the long line of musicians from which she came. One generation to the next, it is an entire orchestra of forefathers. She’s not immediately certain who they all are but she instinctively knows they are clan, her tribe, her people. Each new turn brings more family, more friends, more understanding of just how significant her time on this earthly plain was. Her nurturing spirit and gentle caring soul is now at peace.

Overwhelmed and slightly breathless, she feels she can dance no more. The divine harmonies are drawing her near. When she arrives at the foot of the orchestra, she notices an empty spot has opened up between Robby and Grandpa. She takes her seat and skillfully presses her delicate fingers of one hand to the strings of her instrument. It is a cello. With her other hand she smoothly caresses the strings with her bow.

She is once again beautiful, made whole, with the man she loves and those she had once lost. The light has returned to her eyes. They are together forever in a heavenly grace, free of physical and emotional pain, where souls are renewed and love endures for all eternity.

Rock on gypsy soul.

Let your soul and spirit fly

Into the mystic.

A Time to Dance

I've been dating a wonderful man now for around four months. While four months is certainly not enough time to say "he's the one" or espouse other sappy romantic colloquialisms like "he is as soft and pure as the air I breathe" (don't laugh, I actually used that one, much to the chagrin of my good friends). I am profoundly intrigued by him. I am in fact, intrigued enough to spit it all out here until you, dear reader, beg for mercy and promise me you will endeavor to live a good, honest life hence forth if I will just stop with the endless list of things I really dig about him.

I won't do that to you. At least not yet anyway. What I do want to do is focus on one particular aspect of our relationship. From the moment we met, we had this way of taunting each other with how much we love to dance. Okay so perhaps I did most of the taunting. He is a bit too aloof to throw down the embellished disco gauntlet and give away his moves too early but it was a fun time for us to anticipate the moment when we could finally dance together.

Of course the anticipation also meant we were challenging each other to be, at a minimum, decent dancers - you know, the kind who can follow the rhythm of the music, keep in time with the beat and not consider any type of herky jerky movements our "signature move". Haven't we all sat helplessly and watched the seemingly endless folly of rhythmically-challenged, yet fully impassioned dancers? You see them at every club - every business convention, every family wedding - even occasionally in front of you at a national league baseball game or at your very own backyard BBQ.

What is it about dancing anyway? We now seem to have a national obsession with it. We have Dancing with the Stars, So you Think you Can Dance and even a new show called Dance your Ass Off, which is quite honestly the worst exploitation of overweight people since Krispy Kreme donuts. Remember Dance Fever with Denny Terrio? I dare say, that could have been the catalyst, the show that started it all. Or was it as far back as American Bandstand and Soul Train. I willingly admit, I loved watching Soul Train so much more than American Bandstand. The music, the vibe, the sets, the clothing - it was all done in concert to the rhythm and beat of some amazing soulful music. American Bandstand paled in comparison (no pun intended).

But I digress....

The boyfriend and I had a few opportunities to dance here and there. It was mostly in places where the music was okay - the lighting was, shall we say, well lit - the crowd was self absorbed. Not exactly eager to shake our groove thang but we did shimmy to a few well loved standards. It was enough for me to say with some level of confidence, "this guy will not embarrass me on the dance floor".

And why do we care if someone embarrasses us on the dance floor anyway? Isn't the whole point in life to dance like nobody's watching? I was raised in a traditional Southern Baptist church. Just think of the movie Footloose and you'll know what I mean. How could any religion see dancing as a sin? I have a feeling I know what the Baptists were afraid of. They suspected one could get carried away when they dance. Just as Marijuana is considered a gateway drug - dancing is considered a gateway to kissing, lust and other sexual desires.

The moment did finally come for us to dance in the way we had both desired. We were out of town - exploring the streets of a wonderful city, when we happened upon a salsa club. Given our accents and ethnic appearance (his Armenian and mine Oklahoman) - we felt certain of our ability to blend into the Salsa scene seamlessly. We adopted sexy persona's and transformed ourselves into Carlito and Juanita, hitting the dance floor, succumbing to the beat, moving in tandem - sweating, wildly spinning and freely giving ourselves to the rhythm of the Latin movements and to each other, fully trusting the experience and knowing we would not embarrass each other.

Man, those Baptists were on to something because I've never wanted anyone more in my life. Carlito was sexy personified.

Dancing Queen
Dance, Little Sister, Dance
Shake your Booty
Safety Dance
Last Dance
Just Dance

Dance like there's no tomorrow....or at the very least like you're not afraid to embarrass yourself. I hope you dance.