Two-stepping

When I was young I had it all figured out. The older I get, the more I realize I don’t know.

As a little girl I found refuge in the bathroom to hide my bright red face. Sometimes I pretended I didn’t know them. Like the time we were in Hard Rock Café and my parents started dancing in the middle of the floor… with all eyes on us. Growing up I should have gotten used to it. Or come to understand. Any time appropriate music was on, my parents would dance together. They would jitterbug or two-step or  fox trot. My dad taught me in the privacy of our den. But I didn’t dare venture into public.

Last night, my boyfriend Blake and I, along with three other couples, went two-stepping. We should get an award for most improved. By the time we left I must say, we were pros at dodging the pros and we didn’t look half bad. But more than anything, we had a great time: cowboy boots and flannel, spinning and twirling, laughing and smiles all around.

About halfway through the night I started laughing at the many times I cowered as my parents enjoyed the same thing. They’re cute. It’s only taken me a couple years to figure it out.

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