A picture of Ronnie popped up on my home computer as I sat down to write this today; I didn’t mean to call it up, it just appeared as though someone was giving me a sign.
Message received and understood, Rockin’.
So here we go.
Today my wife went out to visit a friend, leaving me home alone like that kid in that Christmas movie whose title escapes me at the moment. “My Career Is About To Peak And I Can’t Even Drive Yet: The Christmas Movie”, was the title I think. At any rate, I ‘ve been on staycation from the hotel all week and I haven’t really done too much except for seeing Doctor Sleep (The Hook highly recommends it, by the way) and taking it easy.
So today when Jackie left I did what most husbands do when their wives go out. No, I didn’t visit any Tube sites, I vegetated on the couch and watched some videos of a non-carnal nature. But then I felt guilty for doing nothing when my lovely bride works so hard at home and so I did the dishes.
Great story so far, right?
But then, as the dishes began to dry in the holder thingie (I’m a stickler for details) I decided to do something I haven’t done in forever. Again, no I didn’t log onto a Tube site, jeez Louise, you people are randy!
I danced. With myself. To Billy Idol (guess which song, you can do it).
Now I’m the first to admit that I’m as white as Brooke Shields when it comes to rhythmic movements set to music, so you can only imagine what a spectacle it was. The dog ran for cover amongst a pile of winter accessories we’re sorting and still hasn’t come out. But it was fun.
I forgot about my IBS, my enduring heartache at losing my best friend, and a million other things, and just danced like a white boy.
It was glorious. We all need to take a moment to bust lose and make fools out of ourselves every once in a while. Go for it. I dare you.
See you in the lobby, kids…
100 Reasons To Not Kill Yourself: #27: Dancing With Yourself.