I think I'm a rather good dancer.
In the club, that is.
Yeah, there used to be moments when I wasn't inclined to move my arse off the stool as I knocked back shot after shot of whiskey.
But somehow the 'old' old me has managed to emerge from the thorns and shrubs and bushes that have enveloped me over the past ten years or so.
This XO me that used to head straight to the dance floor instead of the nearest spot on the bar. And it feels good, just moving and grooving (do they still use this word?) to the sound of the music. Five minutes on the elliptical, and I'm struggling to stay on my feet. Two hours on the dance floor, and I'm hoping it's not the last call for the night.
Maybe there's still some youngish blood running through my cholesterol-clogged veins; maybe I still have the tar-covered heart of a 20-year old. Who knows eh?
What I do know is that it feels liberating just prancing about without a care in my head; every dark page just flies out the window the moment the notes starts caressing my brain.
So yeah, just dance. And dance.
No comments:
Post a Comment