Dancing with Myself

12 Dec Dancing with Myself

The splinter was a few inches long, having torn through the sheer stockings, and lodging itself deep within the skin of my right foot. Two slices of our wedding cake sat next to me while my father-in-law (inaugurated within the last eight hours), meticulously and carefully, using very sharp tweezers, extracted the wood shard from his only daughter-in-law’s foot. My mother-in-law stood watch holding onto rubbing alcohol and cotton balls, awaiting instructions to “clean the area”.

“Why should cake go to waste while I just sit next to it?” I thought, as I picked up one of the slices to consume. As the raspberry and custard danced in my mouth, I closed my eyes satisfied that Damon and I made the right choice in getting two flavors for our wedding cake – Raspberry Victorian and Chocolate Underground (priorities people, priorities!)

“You danced all night, Samita!” I heard. “That’s how you got that splinter – from the dance floor.” On our wedding night, instead of the intimate moments a bride and groom might share together, our hotel room was filled with family and friends, while Dad “operated” on getting my splinter out.

Hours earlier, after greeting our wedding guests, I danced the night away. Damon spun me, Marc dropped me, Jason and Dale sandwiched me, and Dawn line danced with me; it was a non-stop ball from the first song to the last. I even sashayed while getting water to drink.

“If music is my salvation than dancing is my therapy.”

If music is my salvation than dancing is my therapy. I dance while making meals, in the car, during yoga (Lisa, our yoga teacher, insists on us having fun!), getting ready, and even now as I write Hamilton is blasting in my ears. When the music started up at a quinceanera my family recently attended, I was one of the first ones to get on the dance floor. The space came alive with teenagers, grandparents, moms, couples, young children, and a few dads, Damon being one of them.

We have been together almost 25 years and he has taught me every ballroom dance that he knows. He is my original dance teacher and I a very willing partner. When certain songs play: our souls stir, our heartbeats align to the music, our eyes lock, and hands are clasped. Smiles of recognition light up our faces, as past encounters are recalled, while our bodies synchronize on the floor. Whether a dance floor presents itself or not, we make it happen: in the dark hallway of a restaurant, at a piano bar while patrons dine around us, at a friend’s BBQ on grass, in the middle of our kitchen, a parking lot during the wee hours of the morning, everywhere and anywhere. Only we exist as the world falls away. At some point, his firm grasp is loosened as he allows me to explore others around us.

“Only we exist as the world falls away.”

At some point, I floated from one group to the next, smiling, moving my hips, singing aloud, arriving at the center of an all-teenage group where I showed off some moves as I moon-walked out of the circle all while singing to Taylor Swift. Time speeds up while dancing but there are moments when you make eye contact with someone: you smile, they smile, and there is a nod of agreement that this is good stuff playing and it must be enjoyed. While moving out of the circle, I locked eyes with one of my sons- with a radiant smile, eyes sparkling, hands clapping, he nodded his head proudly almost as if to say, “Hell yeah – that’s MY mom!”

I don’t dance to make my kids proud or to embarrass them; I dance because it is my love. It’s my happy place. It’s gotten me out of some deep undertows in life where I was in the midst of being carried away. Now, when I wake up from a long night of dancing, splinter in foot or not, joints aching with pain, I say a prayer of gratitude. Thank you for the opportunity to use my feet and body. Thank you for the beautiful fellowship. Thank you for the joy. Thank you for yet another chance to smile.

I hope to see you and make that connection on the dance floor some day, but if not I’ll be more than happy “Dancing with Myself”.

My very own blue, suede shoes.