Growing up a preacher’s daughter/missionary kid, I never danced a lot. I love my daddy to PIECES, but dancing’s just not his cup of tea and he wasn’t too keen about his daughter shaking her groove thang on the dance floor period much less with those alien creatures called “boys”. I saved my dancing for college when I went to “foot functions” (as we called them at my Baptist college) and stayed out on that dance floor all night looking a little like Gumby on crack.
I still don’t know HOW to dance but it doesn’t keep me from trying.
Mr. CPQ enjoys cutting a rug or two and has been known to spontaneously turn the kitchen into a dance hall given the right music and a wife who isn’t cranky about who didn’t eat their supper. The first time we danced together was early in our dating career in his apartment living room. Brooks and Dunn were crooning “Neon Moon” and my dance partner was smooth as silk while I tried to keep up and not step on his size 14 feet. After our little turn about the coffee table, he realized he had a hot mess on his hands suggested we take country dancing lessons together and that sounded like more dates for me a great idea so for a while, we met weekly at the honky-tonk tucked away inside a shopping center Holiday Inn to get a few pointers from the pros and practice our my newly acquired skills.
Flash forward fourteen years and this past weekend we were executing twirls and pass-throughs on that Jamaican dance floor like we’ve danced together all our lives.
And we have.
Through laughter, through sorrow, with tears, and with delight.
In living rooms, roadside hotels, and on pristine beaches.
With only the occasional stepping on of toes.