My family was musical. My father had a band and everyone in my family sang or played instruments or both. I am the only one that couldn’t carry a tune but I played classical piano. (That was a real guy magnet you may as well play a tuba….)
We would all sing and dance around when we did things. My mother’s hips could keep time to the sizzle of the potatoes she was frying.
I danced with the refrigerator door. You did too. Everyone did. That was how I perfected my jitterbug. My mother always yelled because I would pull the door open, letting out cold air.
When the twist and other unattached dances came into vogue, I didn’t need the refrigerator anymore. It was unfortunate because I am sure he missed me. (I was gentle with him when we broke up!)
I slow danced with the vacuum cleaner; bugalooed with the broom and strolled down the hallway and out the door. It never stopped.
Today I am no longer infatuated with appliances but I wiggle and jiggle all the time. I especially enjoy dancing down the stairs. I do Rockette kicks and pirouettes. It’s amazing that I am not dead.
There was one near fatal accident. Never, ever dance on stairs with socks. There is no traction. It was a particularly good high kick that did me in. Both feet went up and I landed on my derriere which bumped its way down the stairs (in perfect rhythm).
You should not be laughing. I was in my 50s. I could have broken a hip! You know what happens then. You go in a nursing home and croak! I was out of work for two days. Try to explain that to your boss! (The key here is to say you are having female issues. If you have a male boss they really don’t want to know.)
I wish there was an ending to this story but there isn’t. As I write this post, I am keeping time with my shoulders to some songs playing in the living room. Later I will do a good drum solo with the spatula and fry pan.