Dance like everybody's watching

I turned around, half-furtively, to see  if there was a car coming up the hill.

Or, heaven forbid, another exerciser, breathing deeply as he or she ascended  the steep grade and neared the turn where the road climbed towards the left-handed turn onto the grassy lawn of the elementary school.

Nobody in sight, I lifted my arms above my head, and, experimentally, did a few twirls.

I could say that dancing up the lane made the road ascent easier: any runner or walker knows the trick of moving diagonally to break up the tedium.

But that wasn't really the reason.

I was just tired of being so a model of sobriety.

Being so serious for so long is exhausting.  No one wants to be around someone (often, anyway), who doesn't add a dose of mischief to their daily vitamins.

I once had a teacher who, as far as I could tell, had no sense of humor.

Oh, she was worthy. Worth indeed. Actually, truthfully, she is a wonderful person.

But to see her aspire to crack wise is a painful thing.

And what about fun?

What about racing through the sand, dashing into the water together, silly puns and laughter that does nothing to enrich the future, but much to lighten the moment?

What about the joy that children seem to channel so easily, but that appears to elude adults?

I am a performance artist -- I think that many writers are.  There are lots of us who want to be seen and heard, even if it's in character. Sometimes that urge to be meaningful can get in the way of being relaxed, open, able to throw caution to the winds.

So what if someone thinks you are being an idiot as you throw yourself on the grass or burst out singing?

It's your life.

Do you want to say, near the end, that glee eluded you?

I don't happen to believe that healthy spontaneity is only for the chronologically youthful.

We just mistake it for the disinhibition that comes with booze, or drugs, a steady diet of porn, or some other form of escapism.

Watch out for me as you drive up that hill. I might be twiling.

But shedding the skin of the sober adult doesn't have to be done solo.

Joy for two.

Now THERE's a thought.