I’m not a fitness nut. For a brief time in my life I was, but stuff happened and I reverted back to just being a nut.
At the wonderful age of 64 I have few aches and pains. Both of my knees still work and if it weren’t for a frozen shoulder and some digestive issues I’d feel almost as good as I did at 16. I’m quite a bit fuller figured than I was then, but I’m okay with that. (Hoping I didn’t just jinx myself with all this talk of feeling good.)
Yesterday morning my Apple Watch challenged me to a 20-minute dance workout. I like to dance. No, I LOVE to dance. My morning routine usually includes dancing to at least one of the songs on my Amazon Echo playlist. Three to six minutes of cardio after which I shower and then sit down for a writing session. That sequel isn’t going to write itself, you know. Could I attempt a 20 minute dance-a-thon? Challenge accepted.
And I made it! Granted, every now and then my dancing looked more like me standing in place and snapping my fingers to the beat than actual dancing, but I kept at it—even going a few minutes over time because I couldn’t figure out how to stop the workout timer on the watch.
So now I’m laying in bed trying to decide if I’ll go for it again. Another 20 minutes of sleep or 20 minutes of dance. It’s a tough decision. Yes, it is.
Be honest. You know there are songs that make you need to dance. Okay, maybe you’re like Studly Doright and NEVER need to dance, but if you’re anything like me certain songs can almost literally pull you out of your seat and onto the floor.
Love Shack by the B-52’s is one such song for me, and since it has the word “love” in the title, it qualifies for special mention in one of my February posts. Maybe you have a few “must dance” songs. Let’s compare choices.
Every morning I dance around my bedroom while the cats watch in either fascination or revulsion. Sometimes I swoop in and bring one or another along on my wild pagan romp. They endure the experience with a stoicism the ancient Greeks would have admired. Here’s my actual cat, Patches, watching my dance routine:
Put my head on your shoulder
This feels so right
You don’t like to dance,
But maybe you might
Enjoy holding me close
While shuffling our feet
Kissing during the refrain
More on the downbeat.
I love you so much
That I forgot how to dance
That’s the truest love
The biggest romance.
But sometimes I wish
That you’d welcome the chance
To take me in your arms
And initiate the dance.
I scalded the roof of my mouth several days ago while dining on the exquisite Fit Fare Veggie Skillet at the Denny’s just down the road. Before you look down your nose at my choice of restaurant let me assure you that our Denny’s in Midway, Florida, is the best in the world. It is well-managed with an efficient and personable wait staff, and food that looks exactly like the pictures featured on the glossy menu, and tastes just like I need it to taste.
When my favorite server brought me my favorite meal I dug right in and was immediately rewarded by that ohmygoshtoohottoohot!!! panic. I couldn’t very well spit the food into my plate so I grabbed my ice cold soda and took a long drink, holding the liquid in my mouth until the food cooled.
I knew immediately that I’d pay for my eager gluttony for days, after all, this wasn’t my first burning mouth event. But I don’t think I’ve ever gotten actual blisters in my mouth before. Worst of all I couldn’t even drink my coffee this morning! Maybe I should just go back to bed. To heal.
Postscript: Several days after scalding my mouth I’ve been rinsing with lots of Shiner Bock beer. Salt water would probably be better for the healing process, but it doesn’t mellow me out like beer does.
I am a dancer in the same sense that I am a writer.
I dance, but no one pays me for my efforts.
I dance, and sometimes people laugh.
I dance even when no one is watching.
I dance just because I can.
My cats are puzzled by my dancing, though, whereas they are completely oblivious to my writing.
Often I dance on the soft, faux fur rug in front of the flat screen tv in our den. The rug tickles my soles and cushions my steps.
This same rug is the cats’ favorite spot to curl up for a nap on a sunny afternoon, so my dance steps must be careful lest I squish one of my best friends. I like a little danger in my dance.
The truth is they could move at any time, yet they choose to be part of my choreography. I could dance elsewhere, but then my feline audience would be deprived of my display of grace and natural rhythm. I really am gifted.