Not just a metaphor for sex (although, really, Doctor Who, thank you for that and that was truly a fantastic episode).
I miss dancing. Because I let myself believe that all the problems I have - knees that go out on a whim, ankles that twist with a strong breeze, muscles that contract for no reason - these are good reasons to forget dancing.
There's no one to dance with, so what's the point?
Thing is, I love to dance. When I was little, as a child of the '80s, it was all pop music, so easy to dance to, that you had to go around and bop around like a fool. Then pubery hit and I grew awkward and self-conscious. You couldn't get me to dance if you paid me.
I associate dancing with family, with parties, with laughter. With pride. I remember being absolutely miserable at my cousin's (and I use this as a generic term, they're my father's cousins, my second cousins or cousins once-removed or what have you) New Year's Eve party. Then they put on the music. Salsa. Merengue. Music that you have to dance to.
I was wearing one of those horrid babydoll style dresses (I was around 13??? God, I can barely remember) that were so popular and because I am a freak and still don't really care for dresses or skirts, I was wearing leggings underneath. I do remember that much.
And I danced. It felt right.
I took a little ballet when I was very young, but I learned to dance on my own. It's easy, isn't it? You just mimic others. See moves and break them down slowly and built the pieces back up until your body knows it more than your brain does.
I loved to do spinning jumps. Putting the weight on your back leg, then propelling yourself forward and trying to see how fast you can do. Landing and sticking that damn standing, and continuing on, just letting the move be its own thing.
Raise your arms up to the ceiling and not giving a fuck if that roof burns down. Let the motherfucker burn.
Suavamente, give me one more kiss, look as I beg, creeping towards you, hips swaying. No? Then watch me break out my heeled boots and stomp across the dance floor.
I'm a stomper. I'll break that damn floor.
I've fucked my knee up by dancing. I had to leave my senior year Homecoming dance because my knee cracked wrong. It was funny at the time and still is. A guy I had a major crush on had walked through the doors just as I was exiting and I was trying to hobble back into the gym, my arm around a friend's neck, saying, "No, I'll be fine!"
Still, I never took real professional lessons. I was never in shape to deserve it. But then I did a few musicals at my high school and the director was a choreographer. She insisted on complicated rountines and wanted everyone to nail the moves.
I bought a pair of dance shoes, real dance shoes, instead of the sneakers I wore at rehearsals. It was for a production of Bye, Bye Birdie.
How strange it was, one night, to be singled out for nailing the most complicated rountine, the opening number (it's that Telephone song).
I don't care when I dance about my dorkines or about all my fears. I'm in the song, dude, no matter how stupid it is. Or how dirty it is. It's a song and I want to be a part of it. And it's easy, so easy to dance and stay with the beat.
I'm almost really happy there.
I haven't really danced for such a long time. I miss it. I danced tonight. I even put on my dance shoes and tried to remember how easy it all was. Still, I have a mirror in my room and I noticed the odd things. Goddamn, my boobs really jiggle when I do that. I really need to loosen up my shoulders a bit because it looks odd when my hips are shaking like that to have a lockdown on my shoulders.
But I danced. And I enjoyed it.
And I need to dance more.