Dancing Queen

It started with a grand plan to go out dancing.

And since most of my nights consist of watching television in my sweatpants and eating oranges, I agreed. Hesitantly.

It’s not that I didn’t want to go. Oh no, I wanted to go into the Little Rock night life and listen to music so loud that my head pounded and have slight seizures from the flashing neon colored lights.

Here’s why I was left a quivering and nervous wreck on the way to my state’s capital city: I cannot dance.

It’s cute really, how terrible I am.

Another endearing quality of mine.

1 a.m. found me at a hip joint in the city with my close friends.

I was decked out in my new skinny jeans, a gray frilly top and sling-back metallic heels.

Oh yes, I had arrived.

We weaved through the thick cloud of smoke and people and hit the dance floor.

The music was blaring and the base was vibrating my feet.

And so I did what I always do:

Bobbed my head. Framed my face. The Shopping Cart.

Classic moves of mine. (They require little rhythm.)

Soon the music was moving through me and I was like a noodle being twirled onto a fork.

Twist and swirl, swirl and twist.

(If you aren’t ‘Following’ me after that analogy then I bid you good day.)

I threw in a fist pump for good measure,

flipped my hair for attitude,

and then I found a table and sat down because did you forget?

I was wearing heels.