I don’t dance — don’t ask me!
My dancing is singing.
I don’t care to dance. It’s like taking a bath — I do not prefer them. I love showers, baths do not relax me, they annoy me. Yet they are always on lists of people to tell me to relax. Just like they’re telling me to dance. Please don’t tell me to do that.
I don’t mean it like that. I love music. And I do a lot of dancing — in my car. It’s just that when I hear a good song, my first impulse is to sing, not to dance. Well, there may be head bopping and foot stomping, but that’s secondary to word belching.
Imagine, if you will, a fat, short woman, past middle age, squiggling and throwing her arms about, bobbing her head (at red lights), and singing at the top of her lungs.
Yes, I frequently get the lyrics wrong, and I don’t care. I groove and sing along to everything from Frank Sinatra to Johnny Cash to Linkin Park to Nina Simone and to the Clash. I’m not into air guitar. But, I do play air drums, bitches! I think I’m a bad ass, although I’m also aware that in real life I’m not so tough. Giggling while belting out the Beatles “Bang, bang, Maxwell’s silver hammer made sure that he was dead!” doesn’t help.
Singing (and a bit of car seat dancing) in my car prevents me from getting road rage. It is a sure-fire method of not getting angry at other drivers. Of course, at…
