A Provision for Dancing

I'm getting older and I consider that a very good thing.  It beats the alternative. 

My body (and mind) have reminded me of my age this week.  The Big Race recovery hasn't been as difficult as I expected.  It's been almost exactly as I expected.  Sore muscles at the start were of epic proportions and they've faded into memory only.  The only physical reminders I have are at my right heel (will that ever go away?) and my left second toe.  It's still tender.  I've been reading up on Morton's Toe.  To call myself a genetic freakshow is a bit dramatic and won't bring me any sympathy.  It does bring me the knowledge that my toe will get better and maybe I can prevent this pain from happening in the future. 

It also makes me feel good to know that the Statue of Liberty and I have something in common - other than a pensive countenance which might be mistaken as guarding rather than welcoming.  When I was spending hours online last week I found pics of her feet poking out from under her robes.  Who knew?

So, my mind.  Last night I went country western dancing with a friend.  Let me take that back.  I put on boots and jeans.  She drove us to a honky tonk.  We paid cover to listen to a surprisingly good band.  (I say this because surprisingly, my ears didn't bleed.)  She danced.  I drank two bottles of Michelob Ultra beer and watched the dancing.  Prior to going, I'd told her I wouldn't be dancing.  I know how to two-step and polka.  I can waltz.  I don't love it and I didn't feel like it.  I was happy to sit along the rail and watch.  The crowd was all ages, twenties through sixties and up.  Some were outstanding dancers.  Some fair.  It was fun.

During band breaks the DJ played the kind of music I usually dance to.  When I'm on a cruise ship or when I'm out with friends and I've had two vodka martinis.  I continued to watch.  Honestly, I was happy to have "my foot hurts" as an excuse not to dance.

I also realized I'm invoking an age provision in my head.  I'm going to call it the "Grandmother Clause".   

If at a certain point in your life you are tempted to exhibit behavior that you are certain would mortify any grandchildren you have or could potentially have due to your chronologic age, don't.

I think it's pretty simple, just based on that one simple word:  mortify.   

Don't get me wrong, I'm not going to stop dancing.  Just don't be surprised if THIS Brick House never once takes the Jersey Turnpike on the dance floor.





(p.s.    I think my Dad would agree with the above.  Here's to a fantastic Grandfather who knew how to keep it classy.  Missing him as much today as I did three years ago.  Broken hearts can mend.  Thanks for the love.)











©Michelle Scofield, January 26, 2013 All Rights Reserved