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 we got to it. For the half-minute that followed we busted moves and belted lyrics, scooting to the side 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.

Spain is Lit

We went to a flamenco show earlier tonight which was incredible and not just because the male dancer's costume was, um, revealing. The guitarist picked and strummed non-stop for an hour while another gentleman sang beautiful Spanish songs next to him. Two dancers, a male and a female, opened the show performing together and then took turns snapping and stomping and dramatic-turning their way through a series of dances.

Afterwards, when the show was over and the audience had gone home, Lauren, Mary and I got up on the dancing platform and took turns twirling in Mary’s flamenco dress. We thought we were amazing. Or maybe only I did.

Now it's four o'clock in the morning and I’m just now putting myself into bed. Our train leaves for Barcelona in not very many hours and my body’s not digging the no-sleep sleep schedule it's on. I blame my bunk-mate Mary who has kept me up giggling until far too late both nights I've been here.

To Be Quite Honest

I was scrolling through the Notes app on my white iPhone 6 whilst riding the N-Judah from my office to my home earlier this evening when I came across a recent hastily-jotted memo that made me silly-grin like a doofus.

As darkness began to settle over Cloverdale at Dan and Steve's retirement rave a couple weekends ago, their hired DJ started spinning his set (That's definitely the most accurate yet hip terminology for the things that disc jockeys do, right?) and almost immediately a dance party broke out in the grassy area at the center of their backyard. Instead of joining in I, spotting the newly-emptied hot tub across the way, seized the opportunity to soak in solitude for a few minutes while watching folks get down to the sublime and timeless vocals of Miley Cyrus, Usher and their Top 40 counterparts from a safe distance. I'd been kicking back for maybe a minute when I saw Sidney's best friend Rosie peel away from the crowd and strut toward me.

Rosie: What are you doing?

Me: I'm just taking a little break.

Rosie: You should come dance.

Me: I will.

Rosie: But right now.

Me: Why?

Rosie: To be quite honest, it's not a dance party without you.

My heart swelled ten sizes then and I clambered out of the water, grabbed a towel and followed my new best friend Rosie out onto the dance grass.

Reception

Six days ago my cousin and her fiancé tied the knot at a ski lodge in northern Michigan. Despite the vicious travel conditions, the event was splendid. The pastor was funny, the guests were on time and well dressed, the slopes were covered in a fresh blanket of powder and, instead of shouting profanities and hurling their Burtons at the wedding party as they halted the ski lift for half an hour to take photographs, the skiers and snowboarders waited patiently (and even applauded) as the bride and groom made their way up the hill.

Like I said, splendid.

I'm aware that, as far as the bride and groom are concerned, the aforementioned details are probably how they’ll remember their nuptials. However, I'll remember (most of) my cousin's big wedding weekend with a smirk of fondness for a different reason—the reception.

Now, I've enjoyed myself at no small number of wedding receptions. Heck, I've been to like six this year. But to simply say I had a good time at this one would be a flagrant understatement. Suffice it to say, I owned. I enjoyed myself with the intensity of the sun exploding. Or a weekend in Vegas. Or seeing "The Dark Knight" for the first time. And because I was so busy thieving as much fun from the occasion as I possibly could, my memory didn't capture all of the evening. Luckily, people's cameras did.

This week, as the Facebook tags mounted and the pounding in my head dulled, Saturday evening became less hazy and I began to remember why I threw socially acceptable human behavior to the wind and partied like a Hilton.

Let's recap.

Pregame.

Food.

Photo booth.

Dancing.

Freaking.

Jump roping?

Stripping.

Redressing. (That's me in the red sweater vest.)

And yes, a bit more of the freaking.

If there were one photo that could encompass the sum of all the great parts of the evening, it would look something like this.