My Moonwalk fail. At least my MJ “ehey!” is pretty solid.
I love to dance. If you saw my awesome moves you may be surprised to learn I’ve had no formal training. Actually, you may not be surprised at all as I really don’t have “moves” but I rather just move my body. At least I have rhythm.
I love to watch other people dance. I have not, however, jumped on the Dancing With The Stars bandwagon. I could give two shits watching a somewhat famous person foxtrot. I did tune in for some of the Kate+Eight dancing. And I immediately turned it off; it confirmed my reasoning for not watching it. But I am addicted to So You Think You Can Dance. And it will be back on air at the end of this month. I’m ecstatic if you couldn’t tell.
I don’t know what it is about this show. OK, yes I do. They have hot, young, no-name people that live to dance; their hearts don’t beat without it. Some are really good and some are out of this world fantastic. The choreography is off the hook [more than just ballroom] and it makes me want to get off my bum and do a little wiggle. I’ve been known to DVR the show and try to dance along. Alone.
Hey, it’s no different than sweating to the oldies or jazzercize.
This makes me think back a couple seasons when I’d punish ask the hubs to watch it with me. (He actually likes it – he just won’t admit it.) A commercial came on during the break for Fruit of a Loom or something like that and the actress was dancing around in her undies. The hubs made a comment and I quickly stood my ground: “Mike, I do not dance around in my undies.” He smiled and said, “Yes. Yes you do.” Whatever. The man doesn’t pay attention to what’s in his pockets when he tosses his trousers in the hamper so how can he be so certain?
In typical fashion, after every SYTYCD, I’m up on my feet because I’ve got that samba/salsa/jazz stuff running through my veins. I shimmy down the hall, flipping the switches off on my way to bed. I do a little grand jeté through the bedroom and pirouette into our master bath. I try a plié as I brush my teeth. I jump and turn and be as graceful as I possibly can into my pajamas.
And then I stop dead in my tracks.
Because I’m dancing in my skivvies.
I hate it when he’s right.