Dancing with the Devil

A little friction can be divine

I didn’t learn to dance until I turned sixty. Like most physical endeavors requiring any level of skill, that counts as a late start. Most all the other dancers I know say they started young, as soon as they could talk somebody into letting them take a spin. And a few didn’t even bother to ask anybody - they just grabbed a handful and they were gooone!

Yeah, it’s an addiction. And like most adrenaline-rushing, fly-by-the-seat-of-your-pants journeys, it doesn’t always end well. There are a lot fewer dancers than there used to be, but I have only known a few who stepped back at any point and said: “I’m tired of this; think I’ll quit.” When you hear someone say that, you tend to peek around to see what kind of gun is in their back. There are lots of persuasion pieces out there, often being pointed by otherwise very nice people, like wives, friends, doctors, lawyers, and even magistrates.

But when you’re dancing, it’s magic, even better than sex. Well, it lasts longer anyway. First, you learn the technique, lead with a squeeze of the left hand, then a little roll of the right wrist and you’re gliding. When it’s really good, you’re flying. Lean left, lean right, but always lean into the curves. Gravity meets centrifugal force, feel melodious friction caressing all the smooth surfaces - ecstasy!

Being a late starter has put a lot of pressure on me. When you begin to look as old as I am, people just assume you know what the f#@k you’re doing, ‘cuz otherwise you’d probably be dead by now. So I didn’t get any really good advice, just the standard: “Are you out of your mind? That’s crazy, don’t do that, you’re going to look foolish!”

This led to a lot of poor choices on my part, some might call it promiscuity. But what do you expect with all those flashy colors, tantalizing tattoos, seductive curves, and low-cut outfits built for speed? You can’t dance alone or, if you do, you’re gonna get a lot of strange looks, and people won’t answer your text messages or want to shake your hand.

So yeah, I’ve had a lot of dance partners, 28 and counting. I know, I know what you’re gonna say. But nobody got really hurt. Well, I did get a bad rash once, but the scar doesn’t show if I wear long pants. And best of all, my partners almost always let me stay on top. Well, almost … I did get rudely thrown to the ground a couple of times and there was that one time when I got that rash.

But it’s been a great ride. My partners danced with me along blazing sunrises boiling out of the sea and fiery sunsets painting majestic mountaintop ridges. We’ve danced for miles along snowmelt rivers tumbling through mountain gorges. So yeah, I’ve been kissed a lot, more times than I can remember. I’m a lucky guy.

But no one owns luck. It dances to its own rhythm until the music stops … and you aren’t the one who gets to decide when that is. People are telling me it’s time to step back and quit while I’m ahead. As I approach four score trips around the sun, with failing hearing and arthritic joints, I’m thinking … they may be right.

That’s the problem with addictions, if it’s still fun, why stop now? And how do you know when to quit? Who knew the Devil wears peep-toe stiletto-heel boots? So maybe one more dance?

I always said it doesn’t make sense to get to the end of the line with a like-new, looks-like-it-was-never-used body. Maybe I’m destined to slide in with all the pieces worn out, broken down, and bailing-wired together, singing: “What a ride!”