… and then, halfway through the evening, the dance floor cleared. And I found myself hovering at the edge of an empty floor, with a great DJ and some hot music, and I finally didn’t care. I didn’t care who was watching, I didn’t care if I could do it, I didn’t care that I was (maybe) too old, or too Momm-y, or too fat, or too awkward. There was me, and the music, and the floor.
And the music took hold, and I *could* do it. And I wasn’t too old, or too awkward, or somebody’s mother with a grey mini-van. I was just a person, dancing on an empty floor, with a smile as wide as I have ever smiled. And I ranged far and wide, and I did fancy footwork, and I remembered all the choreography that has worked its way into my life, and my feet and arms behaved and I could DANCE. And it was AWESOME, and this time in an actual fear-and-trembling kind of way, but without the fear or the trembling, but with a sense of the rightness of it all, and the joy, and the freedom of being a human being so blessed with the ability to move and hear and dance.
And it was good.