Cut a Rug

I love to dance. I can’t help it. It’s in my blood. I was born that way. When I hear music, at least music that I like, I feel an overwhelming urge to move. It can happen at any time, even if I’m out shopping or in my car driving. At those particular times, I do resist the urge, but it’s hard to fight. 

My whole family’s the same way. When we’re all at a wedding and there’s dancing, you’ll see every one of us out on the dance floor, even my white boy brother. We all have natural rhythm, and it appears that I have passed it on to my children, except perhaps one of them. I say that with some uncertainty because I don’t believe he’s ever attempted to dance in his entire life, and if he has it’s a closely guarded secret. I suspect he’d rather be caught dead than on the dance floor. That’s not his thing. At all.

In asking around about this particular issue, I have come to understand that there are many men in this world who just don’t dance. They hate it, and if they ever do dance, it is with great reluctance and only because they have been forced into it by a wife or girlfriend. I once asked my daughter what she was looking for in a husband. Without hesitation she said, “He has to dance. I could never marry someone who won’t dance.” I then floated the idea that she might need to reconsider because that would eliminate an awful lot of good prospects. She didn’t care. She wants to dance - takes after me.

I should tell you at this point that as much as I love to dance, I very rarely do, almost never in fact, and that’s OK. Opportunities for social dancing are few and far between anyway. To tell you the truth, the only time I ever dance is at home. If I’m getting restless and feel the need for exercise, I just turn on the music and start my dance workout. My mother once told me that she used to do the same thing. It’s actually pretty enjoyable. You should try it sometime, but I say that with one caveat. Make sure no one else is at home to see it.