Dance Party with Thirty-Somethings in Bathrobes and Purple Hats

Martin's cookin chili and the two older girls are quacking like ducks. Regular sort of night at the Cockroft house.

I wonder how a big bowl of chili and a beer will mix with Lenten dancing? Yep, Martin and I are dancing fools. And I mean that. This man, this man with big hands and fabled feet, who trips over rugs and collides with multiple household items on a regular basis, this man can DANCE, folks.

The first night we switched on Jamiroquai, with the lights on and the curtains open (we noticed at least one car slowing down as it passed our house, and we wondered what our new neighbors across the street must think of us). It took us a while to find our groove, and that was the night Martin figured out that if he wore the hat, he could dance.


The second night we turned off the lights and loaded up Ricky Martin. I started off in my huge red flannel robe that makes me look like a stuffed taco (it was cold!) but by the time the World Cup theme came, I had shed the robe and Martin and I were throwing ourselves wildly all over the library.

The third we tried some Kenyan/Tanzanian music (Martin said, this sounds like Paul Simon, and then corrected himself: Paul Simon sounds like this). We left one light on. It turns out that music from different continents stretches a whole new set of muscles you didn't know you had, and so ten minutes of this music knocked us flat.

And here's the funny thing: almost every night, I'm completely exhausted, and I kind of drag myself into the library. Martin often grumps about the music until he's got his dancing hat on, and after that he becomes a different crazy person. But after dancing, we are completely renewed, our appetites have altered to want fruit instead of our night-time junk fest, and we've laughed ourselves into a younger mood. This is the stuff, people. Sheer silliness and shine.