In the arms of another man I felt exhilarated and almost dizzy. There was a lightness to me, ease and grace. It was wonderful. I replayed the scene over and over again, at least 10 times over the 3 hours I was there. Standing out on the floor in my husband’s dress socks, my arm on another man’s shoulder, my hand in his grasp I felt no guilt. Admittedly I lied by omission 90% of the night -

“So what do you do?”

I’m an artist

And leaving it at that. Sometimes omitting information isn’t such a bad thing. It gives someone a chance to know you instead of tipping your hand too early and them running like a buck in hunting season. For three hours last night I was whirled and twirled, I was desirable again.

There were a few people I recognized, they know my secrets but alas for them I know theirs too. When our eyes met over the shoulder of an 18 year old I knew there was no reason for them to spill the beans, they were just there to dance. I’m sure had I casually worked my age or my husband or my kids into the conversation my dance card would have emptied out. By all standards I’m old these days, well at least by the standards of an all ages dance. One boy, soft and fresh faced, confided that he went to the local high school. I simply smiled not wanting to tell him he was 10 years my junior, allowing him to whip me around the floor thinking I was merely a college student.

Dancing used to be a regular thing for me. It was required weekly maintenance for my sanity. If there is music I can and probably will dance but if I had my choice I’d be swing dancing. I have always felt very tied to the music. In my grandparents little apartment the record player would crackle and snap to life with big band sounds and my grandfather would try to entice my grandmother into a few steps around the living room. When she would oblige him the electricity in the air was amazing. Watching them step and twirl in synch, the music peeling back the years, always thrilled me. My grandmother’s face flushed pink with delight, her reflection loving displayed in my grandfather’s eyes, I easily could see how they fell in love.

I started swing dancing in 1997. With my best friend and downstairs neighbors in tow we hit a local club downtown that had a swing night. For me this seemed to just come naturally. Ask me to tap and without months of practice I’m a flailing danger. Ask me to arabesque and I am a grotesque cartoon of what a ballerina should be. Ask me to jump jive and wail, step back and watch me swing. That first night I had the basic steps down, by the end of the first month I was entering dance contests.

These day’s I’m far behind the curve of a good dancer. Last night was the first time in 2 years that I fell readily into the arms of another man and obeyed his command. The small signals telling me to turn, step and spin slowly came back to me and by the end of the night I was looking like an old pro. I came home flush with excitement, feeling rather content and confident. I can’t wait to go back.

The only cruel hand that swing dancing has dealt me is my husband. I met him at Atlantic Dance, at the time 7 nights a week of swing dancing. Somehow I managed to fall in love with the one man there who can’t and won’t dance.