A good friend of mine always says, or at least his poems say "Husbands don't dance." I sigh each time I hear this. Because it's true. My man danced before I became his wife. We were always running and then bumping into each other on the dance floor back in the day when we were just friends, and dating. I miss those days. Sigh.
Don't get me wrong, I am crazy about my husband the way he is. We are so well suited for each other, we never fight. Disagreements and mood elevated moments happen, but most of the time we share the most wonderful times together. So why am I so hell bent on getting him on the dance floor? It's in my blood.
Even recently a friend and I went to a local night club, on the 'Elderly night', and as I began to shake my grove thang, she said I had moves. It's then I tell people my grandmother must have had an affair with a Spanish Flamenco dancer. I can really move to most any music, but especially Latin music. Even my son has my dance gene. I was introduced to The Gypsy Kings around the late eighties and was hooked to Latin rhythm dancing. I could watch and mimic most moves.
I could not find their music in conventional stores so I set out to hit a few Latin places along a strip in Dallas, known as little Mexico. I thought maybe I could find some really good music to clean house too. Uh huh.
My son in tow, because I home schooled at that time, I parked and entered a strange world of la música. Strange? Because I did not speak one iota of Spanish. I relied on the fact they would speak English. I asked if they knew The Gypsy Kings. Three guys behind the counter chatted amongst themselves for a few minutes and then one of them produced a tape. Yes, a cassette tape. Then a dinosaur ran past the front window chasing a homeless guy.
The young man, well he is now in my memory, put the music tape into their stereo system and I began to recognize the tune and beats. But the three guys all were talking again, in Spanish and pointing behind me. Had the dinosaur broke through the door? No. I turned to see my son behind me swinging his hips and making a various degree of turns he had never displayed before. Huh? Okay, so now you get it, we like to dance.
My father was a dancer. Swing, fox trot, and country, like the old two step, not the line dancing of today. He taught me how to dance in our kitchen when I was growing up. When I was old enough to accompany them to the dance halls, I was hooked. I still miss ole Belle Starr off Central Expressway. The good ole days. I miss my twenty something knees.
When hubby and I met he told me a sad story of his attempts at country two-step. He would go out to a few of the places well known around town and the old Gilley's. When he saw a girl he thought was attractive he would ask her to dance. Often enough they would take a turn around the dance floor, but they would stop him and say "When you learn how to dance come back and ask." Then they would walk away. He is fine freestyle dancing. I say let your freak flag fly in that area.
Hubby and I usually only dance at weddings these days. Not on my side, well one cousins in Fort Worth, but mostly his side. He is the oldest of eight, but the last of them got married last October. Now we have to wait for the children of his mother's children to get married. Sigh.
You can believe I will be throwing my son, if he gets married, a grand party. If our knees survive another hundred years and these dinosaurs feel like getting out on the dance floor. You can bet I will savor every minute. Because, 'Old
My whole purpose of writing this started with a thought of my childhood after reading a Peanut post over at ShrinkingTheCamel.com, Shrewd As Snakes and Innocent As Doves. It reminded me of a time in music class, maybe more of an all around 'Artistic' class in the day (before funds were cut back in schools). I will continue this story in a few days.
My poet friend Pasquale misses his wife, and I think came up with his poem due to regret...
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