Every once in awhile I get a stirring in my soul that can only be quenched by a trip to the dance floor. Two weekends ago, I reached into the back of my bottom dresser drawer and pulled out a pair of fishnet stockings and my black, high-heeled boots. I squeezed into my Killers' t-shirt and threw on a flirty, little black skirt. After dousing myself in glitter from head to toe, I was ready to leap onto the illuminated white tiles of my favorite club.
While I've noticed that most people require a substantial amount of alcohol before they can lose their inhibitions enough to dance in front of a crowd, I am not burdened by such limitations. Without a hint of intoxication, I'm able to throw my hands in the air and let my body intuitively flow to the thumping rhythm of the music. A few hours of this undulating workout inevitably cleanses my spirit and fills me with gratification. A five dollar cover charge is a small price to pay for such a voluptuous experience.
Two weeks ago, at the end of my dancing foray, a polite, young gentleman approached me and simply said: "That outfit you're wearing is perfection." He circled his fingers and brought them up to his lips and made one of those carefree Italian kissing gestures. He said: "Tell the man that you are going home to tonight that he is very, very lucky" and then he walked away. In less than a minute, this complete stranger restored my swagger and reminded me exactly why I go dancing . . . so I can feel alive and vibrant.
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