I know a woman who dances like nothing I’ve ever seen before.
When most everyone else stands around the edges sipping something alcoholic and maybe swaying to the music (but maybe not even that), she dances her face off.
Her arms and legs fly, her body grooves, she whoops and laughs, her multi-colored hair flies, and she sweats joy.
When I think about dancing like she does, not in my bedroom or my kitchen, but in the middle of a room full of people who can actually see me — my face shining, my hips grinding, my legs kicking, my arms gyrating — my whole body goes numb. It’s petrifying.
She dances like there’s a meteor headed for Earth and only her dancing will keep us all alive.
She dances like her soul is having a party and everyone who can hear the beat is welcome.
This woman dances . . . no, not like no one’s watching, because she must know we’re watching.
No one dances like that without wanting an audience.