I used to love to dance.
Not just ballet, tap and jazz lessons that filled most of the first two decades of my life, but DANCE.
I loved to dance at school dances, fraternity parties, clubs, around my house. I would dance until I was dripping with sweat and my spiral perm was Michael-Jackson-in-Thriller kinky. Those of you who might be reading this and were there will remember. I didn't care if I made myself ridiculous while dancing because dancing was . . . joy . . . and freedom.
Sometime, sometime after law school, I sort of stopped. Stopped dancing? Stopped being as joyful? Maybe.
I became weary. World weary. Physically weary. Weary weary.
I think a lot of us stop like that when we get older, when we finally start being "adults."
For about a week, I've been listening to the Ready Player One soundtrack on Spotify. Back and forth, day after day, with a 1980s dance party blaring from my mom-mobile speakers.
I've been yodeling along with Danny Elfman on Dead Man's Party . . . singing gibberish with Howard Jones on Like to Get to Know You Well . . . shouting and growling with Simon LeBon on a number of songs (he did -- and does still -- a lot of shouting and growling, have you noticed?) . . . wailing through Burning Down the House with David Byrne . . . and pleadingly trying to follow Pat Benatar through Invincible . . . . And wanting to dance, thinking about dancing, sometimes head-dancing a little bit.
I imagine dancing to James Brown is Dead as I hurtle down I-35. I imagine what moves I'd make and when I'd make them. I imagine what facial expressions I would use, choreographing the unchoreographical joy of spontaneous club dancing in my head. I want to do it for real, dance like that with that kind of abandon.
Where is my middle aged dance party?
