Dance Like Nobody's Watching

As I was dancing around the kitchen in my new furry boots at breakfast, my teenage son fussed at me to stop dancing because no one wanted to watch. I stopped my dancing and paused to remember that all teens have that eye-in-the-sky that is constantly watching them and judging their behavior, their hair, their clothing choices, and if they have dancing mothers. I informed him that the big eyeball doesn’t really exist, and as we get older sometimes we just like to dance in new furry boots. It’s not for anyone to watch. It just makes us happy. Probably because it brings back memories of some earlier, happy time, like maybe a 3year old self stomping around in the cold, fresh tang of new crunched snow with furry boots that had been pulled on by a beloved, smiling mom that raved over how beautiful the new furry boots looked on my 3 year old feet.

Glancing at my new Bosa Exercise Ball that I had jumped on several times a day since Christmas, it didn’t take much thought to know of what its bright blue rubber, semi-sphere surface reminded me that made me happy to bounce around whenever given the chance. It was a memory that was still vivid, although one others would probably choose to forget.

Since the age of a toddler, I had always enjoyed pinching things. Just for the joyous feeling of something squishy between my fingers, I left a trail of red welts on any cat, dog, horse, or human that came within range. But probably due to my 3year old height, the most favorite squishy item that came into range most often was the human rear end. A problem that no amount of slaps from my parents seemed to be able to cure.

So one bright winter day, as my young mother and I entered the supermarket, I rounded the aisle to see the vision. It was the most fantastic thing I had ever seen. It was huge. It was royal blue. It was round. It was beautiful. And it happened to belong to a woman bending over getting a jar of Hellman’s off the bottom shelf. As my mom made the mistake of turning around to select a salad dressing, I ran away from her to launch at the beautiful, blue globe and sink my fingers into a double-fisted giant squeeze of wonderful royal blue, double-knit polyester and flesh. The woman’s shriek broke through my ecstatic haze where I released my fists and darted off unseen into the safe depths of the store. She jerked angrily around and let out a string of colorful verbs to the only certain pervert in the vicinity which, according to the royal blue woman, had to be my mother standing nearby with her bottle of Hidden Valley Ranch.

I learned of the scene between the two women as I was serenely engaged in my second favorite activity, which was poking the eyes out of all the fresh fish lying in the cold case of the seafood section. Suddenly grabbed by the hair and spun around by the beloved mother of the furry boots, I desperately clutched my styrofoam and plastic wrapped, hollow eyed friend while she shook me til my teeth rattled. An angry, red haired blur, she then stuffed my rattled self violently into her buggy, insuring future immobility by burying me under her multitudes of canned goods.

We spent the rest of the shortened shopping trip with her spouting threats that I would never see the outdoors again before age 35. While reclining on her jars of Ragu, I let the threats surf by me as I searched the aisles in vain for one last glimpse of bright blue polyester. I made my perch much softer by arranging her loaves of bread as seat cushions. This seemed to make her even angrier.

Now, as a post 35 year old woman, I stood at the end of the driveway, waving good-bye as the schoolbus taillights faded away carrying my teenagers off for another day. Memories of the happiness of a smiling mother pulling on new furry boots and a giant, beautiful, bulbous, blue sphere drifted through the air. I turned back toward the house, with no fresh, crunchy snow to stomp, but inside beckoned a bright, warm kitchen with a radio, a blue Bosa Ball, and no eye-in-the-sky to stop my furry boots and I from dancing like nobody’s watching.