I am a great believer in the therapeutic value of dance. Not the hippie herbal stuff where you wear flowers and bells and dance counter-clockwise in a circle holding hands. I'd prefer to be impaled on a stabby bit of wood first. All power to you if that's your thang but for me it's your garden variety dance floor, the kitscher the better with a prettydrink in my hand and I'm dancin'.
The French understands this about me only too well, probably because we met on a dance floor (a story entirely tale-worthy but for another time perhaps). He knows that if I go too long without a dance floor hit I become a significantly less enlightened human being. Which is why I took myself off last night for a dose of my favourite medicine and right now although I am sporting a buzzy background headache I feel like one of those chilled zen buddhist monks.
When I dance it's like all my pent-up angst and stress and STUFF just wants to get the hell out of there and disappears in a puff of cheesy dancefloor black ice.
The full gamut of human emotion is right there on the suburban dance floor, the good the bad and the very ugly. I love the voyeuristic possibilities, the optimist in the corner trying to punch above his weight with a pair of nordic blonds. The woman trying to discreetly worry her g-string back down inside her jeans mid-shimmy. The tender, charged glances of nineteen year olds too scared to make the first move. And of course, my personal favourite the 45 degree staggerer clutching both a corona and if possible the nearest woman's backside before being whisked off by a bouncer.
I strongly suspect that if we were all to really let it go on the dance floor every now and again we would be a happier, healthier and saner community as a result. And i think these guys have got that all worked out.