My wife and I rarely dance in public. It's just something I don't care to do. I feel awkward and silly and don't enjoy myself at all. But I do have a regular Sunday morning dancing partner that my wife has no problems with.
Fairly regularly on a Sunday morning I will don my dancing shoes. The shoes were my Dad's walking shoes. They fit me a bit tight but are perfect for the light, quick movements required of my fat, flat feet. Although I go dancing with my partner on Sunday mornings as often as possible, the shoes are still in pretty good shape and they make me feel good all over when I put them on. Part of it is the memory of my Dad, but it's primarily the anticipation of the dance coupled with the fond memories of past dances that cross my mind as I lace up. What will this dance bring? Will it be fast and exhilarating? Will it be slow, steady and full of wondrously breathtaking scenery surrounding the various dance floors we will explore?
I engage my partner and we warm up slowly together before we head out to the dance floor. She's an old girl and doesn't like to immediately rush into things as a younger partner might be able to do. She also has her limitations. A younger partner may be able to dance faster and make some quicker moves than my partner, but that does not diminish the thrill and rush I get when I am one with my partner and we are moving along the dance floor with style and grace and at a briskness that still turns the heads of partners much, much younger. I get a big smile on my face every time we go out.
We head out on the dance floor and begin with slow moves testing our joints, testing the floor and our shoes, ensuring everything is all warmed up sufficiently before we start to push things. The first move is a quick move to the right or left followed by a quick acceleration down the floor. Feedback from my partner is immediate and clear. I can feel how her shoes are gripping the dance floor. I can hear her breathing and can tell from her sound if she is properly warmed up and ready for more brisk moves. Our next series of moves sends us back and forth across the floor sending us closer and closer to the edge. I can hear and feel her old dancing shoes sliding. It makes it more of a challenge with the old shoes but that is part of the thrill. Newer shoes would just mean faster dancing, not any more challenging or satisfying, just faster. A friend of mine who also goes out dancing but with a much younger partner says he purposely bought her crummy shoes, just so he could slide her across the dance floor more easily and enjoy the thrill of the catch before she goes over the edge.
Feedback from our Sunday morning dances is immediate and satisfying. My partner roars as I push her harder and harder, but she gently purrs as we coast along in between dance floors. I swing her left and she wails aloud as we rush down the floor. I swing her right without slowing and the goose bumps raise on my arms as we rush along together. I slow her down hard and fast and then immediately put her into a tight swing back and forth using every available inch of the dance floor. Sometimes when I push things hard, I get a pucker and it's not my lips doing the puckering.
The dance floors we visit either have names or are assigned letters. Our favorite dance floors also have multiple S's or in many cases have multiple arrows left <<< or arrows right >>>.
Sometimes we have actual music as we dance, often not, depending on whether the old radio my partner has decides to work or not. It doesn't matter; my partner makes the sweetest sounds and that is all I really need to hear.
My dance partner has fallen before, once when a friend tried dancing with her and did not know her limitations and once when I pushed her too far myself. The time she fell with me was almost fatal. It was done at a time when we were dancing competitively and the dance floor was poorly designed. As we approached a very fast portion of our dance routine, she slid off the floor a bit and found a wall that was much too close to the edge of the dance floor. She smacked it hard and my dance partner was gravely injured. It took a lot of time and care to heal, several years in fact. Now we rarely participate in competitive dances. And when we do, although the juices still flow and the exhilaration is divine, we still hold back a bit, understanding our limits, acknowledging our past experiences and weighing the consequences of our actions. Now our Sunday morning dances are usually just the two of us - and we are quite fine with that.
After we have finished our Sunday morning dancing and she has had a chance to cool down, I cover my partner up with her cozy blanket until another opportunity on another Sunday morning arises. Until then, she will wait, gently weeping a bit under the covers. But they are not tears of sorrow or tears of joy she sheds, but tears of oil dripping to the floor. For my Sunday morning dance partner is my 1963 Lotus Elan, and our dance floors are the rustic and twisty back roads in Southern Wisconsin!
