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.

And Know It

For whatever reason 35 feels big to me. I’ve been thinking a lot about it and what I want it, and the time after it, to be, and inside the collection of Mary Oliver poems that I picked up at Tim’s Used Books in Provincetown last week I found a mighty fine answer.

Look, I want to love this world

as though it’s the last chance I’m ever going to get

to be alive

and know it.