If I had to do life all over again, I’d be an accomplished dancer. I wouldn’t specialize in just one type of dance, I’d be good at them all: ballet, tap, rock, modern, salsa, waltz and hip-hop.
Then, at our recent holiday party, when this popular dance band encouraged guests to get out on the dance floor, I’d be confidently saying to myself, “Bring it on!” Next, I’d be roaming the tables beckoning various shy, but willing, ladies to join me. I wouldn’t care what song the band was playing, I could dance to them all. Everyone would surround the dance floor and start to slowly clap to the beat of the music. At the end of each dance, I’d graciously bow to my partner as if all compliments should go her way.
Actually, I was in the back corner of the room, snacking on chips and cheese dip and engaging a few other non-dancing male friends in banter about bitcoins, of which I know nothing about.
Later, at home with my wife, Sherry, who is exhausted from her boogie-full evening, I take off my shirt and look in the mirror. I slowly rotate my stomach to the left and then to the right. I tell her, “Yes, I think belly dancing is for me.”