Still waiting

Dances were always painful for me despite, or perhaps because of, my love of dancing. I had always been self-conscious or afraid of asking or not being asked. Afraid that the one with whom I wanted to dance, would not want to dance with me or wouldn’t wait if he looked for me while I danced with someone else. So I wouldn’t dance. I would wait. All my life, those fears haunted me every time I went to a party or a dance. Until thatnight. Something inside me said, carpe diem, my dear. Seize the day. Don’t wait for someone, anyone, to ask; if you want to dance, dance. Ask who you want. If you keep waiting, you may die still waiting.

And so, that night, although I did want to dance with a certain someone, I wasn’t going to wait for him to ask. When I entered the room, I looked around to see who I could ask, and asked the first person who smiled and said hello. I danced nearly every dance. I’d been building up my courage to just have fun for me, with me and whoever would join me. A snapshot in time to keep me happy, to remember in less happy times, or times when such fun is hard to come by. One does not have to be in the throes of death to see one’s life flash before one’s eyes. I saw my life flash before my eyes almost daily, and I had no intention of regretting dances not danced...anymore.

When hearrived, I scurried over like a mouse desperate for cheese and he said, hello, not right now. I smiled, sick inside, but went to find someone else. Don’t wait, don’t wait, just dance, feel the music, feel the happiness that soars through your body and makes you light and warm and happy. I danced. I ached for him, but I didn’t wait. Don’t wait, don’t wait, don’t get sad, dance, smile, have fun, wait dancing, not sitting, not moping, not hoping. Don’t wait, dance. Live. We spend so much time waiting for life to happen instead of living in the moment. I was finally awake to life and its finiteness, and I wanted to squeeze every bit of joy I could from the moments granted me.

Finally, we danced. My hips were saying things I could not possibly say with words. His hands caressed me gently as we danced and he looked into my eyes and we smiled, and we didn’t smile, and our eyes spoke as loudly as my hips, my legs, my arms, my hands. We danced a slow dance and it was dizzyingly painful to keep a relatively acceptable distance. By the third slow dance and the pending end of the evening, there were couples fulfilling the vague promises thrown out during their dances, or perhaps during a week, a month a year of suggestion. Who knows? We danced and watched lips meet, not daring to mar imagination with reality. Only dancing, touching discretely, suggesting but not actually fulfilling that query. Can I? Can we?

For the first time in my life, I understood clearly why some religions forbid dancing. And I finally understood dancing as the vertical substitute for the horizontal dance implied by all the gyrating and thrusting one sees on a dance floor. I had never felt so strongly that I was doing a dance because I couldn’t, wouldn’t do what my eyes, my hips, the smile on my lips invited, longed for, shouted, implored.

We moved in sync, our bodies knowing each other instinctively. I was so close if I moved half an inch, our lips would meet. I could taste his breath as I leaned closer to his face, his ear, his neck. I could feel the want in my toes. I could feel his pulse race with mine, vibrating in the miniscule space that separated our bodies. One inch and I would taste heaven, or hell. The music stopped. We stopped. We didn’t move. I closed my eyes in anticipation of complete and utter fulfillment and an alarm sounded. I opened my eyes. Fire drill. I could see my colleagues already evacuating the building through my window. Still trembling from my lovely escape, I opened the door to follow.