The neighbor caught me dancing. I was finishing up my walk, had reached the driveway, and “Voices of Spring” started to play. One-two-three-one-two-three turn-two-three oops!-two-three Hi Mister Bob.
Well, what’s a woman supposed to do in the twilight as the moon is rising and a Strauss waltz is filling her earphones? Pick up a little of her very full skirt and start dancing, of course.
Not that I can dance worth a lick. Irish caelidh dancing is one thing, because it is a lot like the Virginia Reel and other things I learned in grade school, but with fancier footwork and different rhythms. Clogging? Nope. Tango? Tried it, legs are too short and I cannot sort out the rhythm, interestingly enough. None of the Latin American dances work for me: tango, samba, bolero, none of them.
I’d love to learn old-style ballroom dancing, especially how to waltz properly. At one time I knew the basics, but time has faded the muscle memory. Waltzes look so graceful, and it doesn’t matter that I don’t have long, lean legs, because no one sees them. So I was out walking, listening to Strauss, thinking about Vienna (and dodging small dogs on black leashes. People, don’t let your dogs get so far away before you hit the ‘retract leash’ switch! Especially when you have two dogs on two leashes and they are getting tangled. If the light had not reflected a little off the nylon, I’d have gotten tangled up too). It was a lovely, crisp evening, and I wore a long, full skirt with my usual heavy winter flannel petticoat, perfect for waltzing, or striding without ripping a seam. One-two-three, one-two-three, I managed to resist temptation until I got home. Then I started turning and twirling under the light of the moon . . .
And added one more thing to the neighbors’ list of “That Red gal’s a little odd. Nice family, harmless, but a little odd.”