I love dancing. I just do. We went out dancing in Bogota, just like we did last year in London, and like that one amazing night of oneness and total delightful humanity in Venice when I was 20, it counts among my best lifetime experiences.
I feel a little silly writing that because I'm not a "dancer" in the way you think of dancers, usually, their bodies long and lithe and their posture just right. But I dance all the time, and it's part of our family life and part of how I express and live in the world. There's Nia, which I haven't done much of lately because of my long Saturday runnings prepping for this crazy race, and then there's a whole lot of just silly dancing around the house, and there's just lots of random, spastic movement. God bless it.
My friend Ellen asked me what the name of the girl is, that girl I turn into when I get to go out dancing, that girl who has no trouble expressing sexuality and who stays up late and drinks too much and laughs and forgets herself totally. I said I didn't know, and she said I should ask her next time I see her. I will.
Anyway, I say all this because I hope that, in some small way, my amazing love of dance has been passed on to my daughters. Or, at least, to one of them.
Yeah, that's my kid.