I am dancing as fast as I can.

Photo by Ahmad Odeh on Unsplash

Wayne Dyer said, “When you dance, your purpose is not to get to a certain place on the floor. It’s to enjoy each step along the way.

I’m dancing as fast as I can.  The tempo may kill me. My feet lift and fall, lift and fall, heel, toe, do si do, step two three and twirl. 

I’m dancing as fast as I can, don’t ask me to juggle.  Now is not the time.  Dip, sway, do the hustle, all fifty-seven steps.  I can’t stop, the music still plays and plays and plays…like an organ grinder with a monkey I dance.

Perhaps I should seek coins from those watching.

I’m dancing as fast as I can, skirt belling and swirling and tangling between my legs.  I stumble now and again, but I’m dancing as fast as I can.

No time for chores, for downtime, for respite, I am dancing as fast as I can,  The cha cha, the foxtrot, a stately waltz all without a partner. Alone.

Nietzche said, “And those who were seen dancing were thought to be insane by those who could not hear the music.

I can hear the music.  Can they?  Am I insane?

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Dancing Queen

Shortly after my 17th birthday, 12 days to be exact, on August 15th, 1976, Abba released Dancing Queen in Sweden.  A couple of days later it came to the United States.  Recorded a year earlier, they knew it would be a monster hit.  They held it until the release of their 4th studio album. 

Photo by No Revisions on Unsplash

Oh my.

It was my anthem and ushered me with a full head of steam into my Disco phase.

She was young and sweet, only 17, a Dancing Queen, oh yeah. . .

Now then.  I will not apologize for Disco.  I’ve always said I never confused the music I listened to with the music I danced to.  These are not just different genres, but different activities.  Most of my favorites are not danceable.  There are a few exceptions and sometimes it’s quite bizarre – like the interpretive dance I do to Leonard Cohen’s Hallelujah, but generally speaking separate.  Separate but equal.  Good dance music is as good as good listening music. 

Disco was a hoot and a holler.  Step, step, heel toe, pivot….  The theater of it!  The clothes!  The shoes!  The glitter eyeliner!  The steps.  The twirls.  The lifts. 

I loved it all.

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Photo by Long Truong on Unsplash

I was reigning at Table 28 as usual.

The Inferno in Huntington, West Virginia was the area’s premier disco. Sleek, sophisticated, trendy – or at least as much as it could be in an old warehouse on a crumbling street near the river.

Its claim to fame was that each table had a red phone on it with a light fixture overhead emblazoned with the table number. You could call from table to table just by dialing that number. It was a new era in pickups.

My best friend and I weren’t even old enough to be in the place when we first started going. But we each dressed to the nines as was traditional with disco and pretty much behaved ourselves as far as the rules went. Donnie was a guy. We had an unlikely friendship, but a very close one. We were inseparable. Folks thought we were dating, but we weren’t. We were just good friends. Perfect friends. Completely accepting of one another.

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