I love to dance. For many years, I went to a small club in Boston and danced nearly every Saturday night. I went with two different sets of girl-friends over the years. I had so much fun selecting my outfits and accessories (bling) for going out. I made sure my hair was just so (even though I’d sweat it out most dance nights).
I also played a guessing game of how many dances I would have and how many different partners on any given Saturday.
It’s the one activity I don’t share with my husband. We didn’t meet dancing and, except for occasions like a New Year’s Eve soiree or other invitational parties, we don’t dance. We didn’t meet at the club or at a party so dancing is not one of the things that drew us together. (Perhaps that’s why we have a marriage instead of just a memory.)
Recently I took action on this dancing dearth. Hubby always plays music – he has an internet radio station after all. I started asking him to dance with me up in our attic retreat (or the penthouse as I call it because it reminds me of his 12th floor apartment he had when we met).
I’m aiming to make our private dances a regular event because, in case you haven’t heard, I love dancing. Dancing transports me back to my girlish days. I love slow dancing in his arms. (Believe it or not I blush when we dance). It’s thrilling and such fun.
If hubby only realized how much it meant to me, he’d probably ask me to dance more. (Perhaps he’ll read this and take the hint.)
Meanwhile, I will continue to invite him regularly to dance with me. It turns out that I don’t need to go out. I just need to dance…with him. There’s only one thing better…and dancing always leads to it. (Blush.)