My parents wouldn’t let me see this movie when I was a kid. We were Presbyterians, but it didn’t matter. Something about it being rated “R” and me being ten years old.
When I was 30 or so, I got the guts to watch it on TV one night. My parents then lived about 400 miles away, so I wasn’t worried (much) that they’d walk in and catch me. I tied some beer cans to the door so I’d hear them if they walked in.
Anyway, it turns out they were right in not letting me see it. It stunk.
But, with no dancing role model (and the Baptist Church in town) as a kid to follow, I never quite learned how to cut a rug. It’s no secret I can’t dance. I admit it. And the occasions that I have danced caused everyone else to admit it. I guess by the time I tried to dance, I was too self conscious to enjoy it and just let go.
However, I’ve become a dancing fool in the past few months with a couple of people who think I can really move.
We dance in the living room. It’s mostly jumping up and down and laughing, Gracie twirling around and John trying to keep up with us. It really is a lot of fun, no one tells me I stink at it and it’s either good exercise or a potential reason to call 911. We’ve only broken one lamp, so far.
Take that, Cotton Mather.
