In Defense of the 30-Second Dance Party

I was experiencing a fair amount of dread about heading back to work after a gloriously chill long weekend on Tuesday so I decided to stall said return, albeit briefly, on my way out of the house.

“30-second dance party?” I asked Bevan, who was nestled on the sofa reading the paper, Buddy and Ellie asleep next to him.

“Okay,” he responded, no questions asked.

A moment later Cyndi Lauper’s “Girls Just Wanna Have Fun” was spilling out from the living room speaker and Bevan got up and got to it. For the half-minute that followed we busted moves and belted lyrics, scooting to the background whatever the day had in store for us. When the 30 seconds were up we were both breathing a bit harder but grinning pretty damn hard, too. Off I went then, out into the world feeling those fresh-off-the-dance-floor feels.

It Never Changes

Jamie sent me these yesterday.

They were snapped at her wedding reception, which took place at a lodge on a mountaintop in Oregon on the first day of June. Initially I looked at the pictures and thought “My head looks huge and shiny, probably cuz my shirt’s so tiny.” (Yeah, I think in rhymes, what up?) But someday, likely far sooner than I can even fathom now, I’ll look at them and think “Wow, I had hair! And teeth! And no gut! And oh my goodness that baby blue suit! God I loved that suit! I got it on that rainy day shopping adventure in London with Bevan and Chris! And there’s Jeremy and Saph! Goodness it’s been forever! I really should give them a call!”

I also appreciate how well the photos capture Bevan, like really capture him, even though they only show part of his face. When he and I are on a dance floor together, any dance floor, he gets this full-body smile and I can tell, even without seeing it, that he’s wearing it in those pictures, that smile he reserves just for me.

I guess what I’m trying to say is this:

“The best thing about a picture is that it never changes, even when the people in it do.”
Andy Warhol

Also, I don’t have a butt. I’m saying that, too.

Move Therapy

I bought an antique desk on Nextdoor over the weekend and last night Bevan and I drove the half mile from our house to Duboce Triangle to pick it up. Upon our arrival we discovered that the desk, a squat, chartreuse tank measuring four feet wide by two and a half feet deep, was stationed on the seller’s second-floor back patio that was accessible only by way of a narrow, low-ceilinged alleyway. It was during the hauling of said desk through said alleyway that the following conversation took place.

Me: Lower your end, Bevan! I can’t lift mine any higher!

Bevan: I’m trying, Corey! This thing’s heavy!

The Seller: Do you guys need some help?

Me (straining out a smile): Nope, all good! I said lower it, Bevan! Jesus Christ!

Bevan: Thanks for the offer though! You wanna do it yourself, Corey? I’m more than happy to let you try!

The Seller: How long have you two been together?

Me: A trillion millenniums. Tilt it to the right, Bevan!

Bevan: Seven and a half years. I am tilting it to the right, Corey!

The Seller: Do you live in the neighborhood?

Me: In the Castro. Dammit Bevan, watch the corner!

Bevan: Just above the flag. You watch the corner, Corey!

The Seller: That’s close to my office.

Me: Neat! Ow, Bevan! You could have told me there was a pipe behind me!

Bevan: What do you do for work? I would have, Corey, if you weren’t pulling so damn hard!

The Seller: I’m a therapist.

Me: Great! Walk faster, Bevan!

Bevan: A worthy profession! Walk slower, Corey!

The Seller: A couples therapist.

Me: Oh, neat. Lookin’ strong, B! Keep it up!

Bevan: Therapy is very important. Doin’ great, Core!