Thursday, January 28, 2010

Why I Love to Dance

There is nothing I love more (*a hem* ... besides shopping) than a good, old fashioned booty-shake. For those of you who don't speak my language: I love to dance. I'm pretty sure this guy does too:



... but, as far as I know, I don't dance like that. Of course, I rarely dance in front of mirrors. WINDOWS. Now those, I'm pretty fond of. Mirrors, however, are not my forte'. *Sigh* My poor, poor neighbors ... they probably think I'm a complete nutter. And my customers! I've caught lots of them giving me that wide-eyed, 'I'm-trying-to-keep-my-jaw-attached' look as I fly by, drinks balanced in hand, rockin' perfectly to the beat of Michael Jackson's 'Blame it on the Boogie.'

Now, I'm not really a dancer, at least, I'm not a trained dancer ... but I am wildly eccentric and expressive. By my estimation, that means I can be whatever I damn well please and it pleases me to dance. It's also mildly important to know that I rarely wear pants when I'm at home ...

Okay, okay ... so you probably didn't need to know that last bit, but it is certainly amusing when you put the dancing and the undies together. You'll become especially empathetic when you think about the eighty year old who lives directly across from me. Most of the time I dance at random - galavanting back and forth in front of my two panoramic windows - completely unaware of my potential audience. (By the way, I would just like to say that the word 'panoramic' should not be applied to a condo with the view of an eighty year old man who knits in his wife's mu-mu.) He gets a much better show than I do.

In fact, I'm so prone to random fits of movement sans pants that my boyfriend has grown accustomed to slowly shutting the blinds whenever I walk through the door (which is actually pretty funny when I notice it). He's grown to understand that, after a long day, I'm likely to strip down to my skivvies and jive with it. This kind of makes me curious ... How you de-stress? What strange ritual helps you unwind? My job is often hectic and thankless - sometimes the only thing keeping me from introducing a mug of beer to a rude patron's face is the fact that my ritual is so accessible. 

So let the cat out of the bag! Turn up ABBA's 'Dancing Queen' and shake your tush like Cameron Diaz in 'Charlie's Angels.' Because, if you can't dance around your house in your underwear, where the Hell can you?