I can't dance. There I said it. I. Can't. Dance.
As mother of the groom I was to be honoured with a mother/son dance. I was scared witless. There was a list of things to do for this occasion: speaking, playing, hostessing, arranging, being a wee bit bossy - but not too bossy. All of these were a walk in the park compared to the 'dance'!
My baptist roots are pretty clear about the evils of the dance and where it could lead...a loose and immoral life! Oh my! That was in the 60's, yet here am I closer to 60 than the 60's and I still have the dance phobia.
Turns out my fear was much ado about nothing. Middle son and I rocked at the dancing thing! In fact turns out dancing is so much fun the reverend and I took to the floor and pumped with the youngsters.
|Middle child dancing with his new bride.|
At a certain point in the evening celebrations, I took our granddaughter, the flower girl, to our hotel room for a bit of a break; turns out her break was actually her bedtime. Her dad joined us and took over the task of putting her to bed. She had done a magnificent job at scattering petals and by now was exhausted.
I went back down to the banquet room to absorb more of the festivities and perhaps help clean up. I sat down wearily, now dressed in jeans, a groovy top and some very flat shoes. My dear friend and I were chatting when I realized my reverend was missing. Where was Pastor Jim?
Then I heard it.
Quiet, vague; a distant chant. "Pastor Jim, Pastor Jim".
Where on earth was he? The chant got louder, almost boisterous, I looked across the room and there he was. Hand pumping, dancing, laughing...with the twenty year olds. What was I to do? I joined them, at first alone and later dragging my dear friend, RNY with me. Such fun. The bride and groom had long since departed, yet the celebration continued.
Whoever said, you're never too old...got it right!