I love dancing. I’d marry dancing if I wasn’t already spoken for, and she would have me.
Also, yes, dancing is a girl. So I’m gay for dancing.
I dance everywhere. I’m the girl you catch dancing in the car. I dance down grocery store aisles. I dance in my kitchen, and my mother’s kitchen. I dance in the shower. I dance at my desk at work.
When I was waitressing in college, I danced around the restaurant. Someone bet me that I wouldn’t dance up to a table, dance while I took their order, and then dance out their food. Uhhh, of course I’ll do all those things – because in addition to being an awesome dancer, it’s almost impossible to embarrass me. After that, someone made me a new nametag: Dancing Queen. People asked to sit in the dancing girl’s section. I made a lot of money that summer.
Somewhere there are dozens of pictures of me and my two bffs, Kristina & Matt, dancing in our underwear. It was choreographed, on the spot. The pantslessness can be easily explained — it was summer, we didn’t have AC, and we were probably drunk. The DJ at my wedding found out about it, and called them both out onto the dancefloor with me, and Matt whispered, “do I have to take off my pants?!” That’s how serious I am about my dancing.
Mike does not dance. Well, he slow dances — but that’s usually only at weddings, or in our family room if our song comes on.
(Now our song is playing, and I’m dancing, again. Alone. Sitting down. And I look good.)
In the almost three years I’ve known Mike, I can count the number of times he’s danced with me for real on one hand. I’ve danced with my best friend’s husband more than my own – but I’m ok with that, because it’s not really his thing.
Mike did recently make up his own dance though.
He calls it the Jazz Triangle.
And it’s amazing.
But most of the time, we look like this: