Driving home, I was listening to "Prairie Home Companion." Inexplicably, Steve Martin was on there, playing the banjo and singing country songs. I looked back, and there was Joel,in his car seat, twitching and bobbing his head in his own version of dancing.
I've mentioned before that Joel likes to dance, but it bears repeating. Somebody with my DNA dances. To me, this is as surprising as if Joel suddenly starting flying or speaking Japanese.
To me, my lack of dancing is not so much because of lack of skill, but because of inhibition. I'm concerned about doing it wrong, or not having the correct moves; consequently, I'm the one at the party with an inordinate interest in the punch.
I don't really have secret desires for Joel to be the next Billy Elliot or Baryshnikov. In all actuality, the life of the professional male dancer is not the easiest path to tread. It would be great, however, if he could cut the rug, and, like the cliche goes, "dance like nobody is watching."
My cousin's husband, Matt is like that. He's in the Army, and is a hard-working, focused person. He has an Irish complexion and keeps his hair high and tight. This is why it is the most delightful, unexpected thing to see him bust out the dance moves at weddings. He moves with grace, humor, and a complete fearlessness. I'm not saying he could perform at the Apollo, but he can do the Hammer dance, knows all of Michael Jackson's (pre-bizarro) signature moves, and can even do a mean swing dance.
I honor the comfort he has in his own skin, and in the sheer joy in moving. I envy it, too, because I am never able to let go enough to feel that same sense of abandon.
This is why I hope Joel remains a dancer. I want him to be fearless and carefree, and to use his body as an instrument of joy, not repression. I want him to dance just because he can.