I’d just added finishing touches to the Chicken Cacciatore dish I was creating. There was a cross-breeze through the open kitchen / living area of the cabin, so the heady aroma of tomato and fresh basil filled the room and wafted out the windows. As the classic Bill Withers oldie Just the Two of Us came up on my playlist, the hungry and tired Consultant came through the door. “It smells great in here!”
He grabbed my hand; we smiled directly into each other’s faces and started to dance. I took the lead and twirled him before he could twirl me. When we stopped before the music ended, we laughed. Nothing needed to be said. It was an awesome moment of reconnection. Yet, it felt frivolous and I wondered why I’d ever stopped dancing?
I was a dancer, starting with ballet at 5. Then I dreamed of becoming a go-go dancer with my dad’s band. I took social dance in middle school. In my teens and as a young adult, I was the first one on the dance floor and the last to sit down. I’d been dancing my way through life.
When we first met, I danced and The Consultant didn’t. Every chance I got I’d find some single guy or friend’s partner to bop around the floor with me. Heck, if I was feeling really desperate, I’d go it alone.
Later we danced. I guess The Consultant figured he’d best join in. I was having way too much fun out there without him.
Then he danced and I didn’t. He coaxed our friends’ wives to dance with him in the living room after dinner. He took my mom and spun her around at many a family function. He danced while I watched.
Somewhere along the way, I had become reserved and in control. Something about motherhood and family life made me see the serious side of life.
Now, I want to get back to this – (listen here)
Because, in that moment, in a tiny cabin by the lake, I took The Consultant’s hand and decided to dance.