I discovered dancing at an early age, loosely using the word “dance” to describe my style of cutting a rug. Come to think of it, home videos from my childhood birthday parties looked like I was, literally, cutting a rug, flailing my arms down to the floor with erratic hand gestures. Singing happy birthday always was an invitation to boogie. I didn’t care. I let the off-pitch chorus move me.
Dance lessons were not part of my parents’ limited budget raising four girls. But my dad liked to kick up his heels, too, preferably to the tunes of his favorite big band singers – Frank, Tony and Mel. He would offer his hand to me for a spin around the room. Cheek to cheek, we danced as the stereo played records lamenting the wee small hours of the morning, lost hearts in San Francisco and strangers in the night.
High school and college dances gave me freedom to expand my musicality as the “Dancing with the Stars” judges say. These were the ’80s, after all. The Gap Band taught me all I needed to know about hip thrusts and foot skips. Foot skips may not be the correct technical term.
Lucky for me, I met a man who indulged my love of dance. In return, I indulged his passion for all kinds of music, especially jazz, quite the leap from “Super Freak.” We danced to Coltrane and Hartman at our wedding.
Consequently, our children love music. In keeping with my father’s tradition, my family and I used to find an excuse to dance after dinner on the wood floors in the foyer of our former home. The living room had more space, but, for some reason, we chose the crowded foyer off the dining room so our dancing was more sliding back and forth so not to bump elbows with the dancing mother/son, father/daughter couple nearby. Chet Baker was one of our favorites. We swayed to “Let’s Get Lost” while our dog kept close watch on our unfinished meals at the dining table.
But as the years went by, something happened.
I stopped dancing.
Life and circumstances became more restricted. Some of this comes with age along with the awkward realization that maybe you’re not the dancing queen you thought you were. Or a successful business owner. Or a skinny size four. Or whatever you thought you’d be.
Besides, my flailing arms that once belonged to the little birthday show girl have become the flabby appendages of a cautious dance-averse middle-aged woman.
I became self-conscious of any step I made, disco or otherwise. It was easier to set up boundaries to mitigate the heavy load of being an adult, an often stressed and tired one at that. I lost the foyer/dance floor and the house that went with it. Enter excuses not to dance and, instead, curl into embryonic position.
Not long ago, however, life became heavier. People I love deeply faced challenges no one should, yet they keep showing up with grace and hope. They haven’t retreated into the unpredictable shadows of life’s dance.
That’s when I decided to get a grip. I’m OK. I’ve made it this far. And I have two legs to stand on and boogie.
Last month, my husband and I discovered salsa night at a local restaurant. We’ve been back twice. Dancers of all ages and abilities joined in on this electric and joyful dance.
Mike pulled me onto the floor. We swayed back and forth. I laughed at our amateur salsa moves, gleefully letting myself get lost in song.
Just like a kid at her own birthday. Which, in a way, it kind of was.

Amy Mangan is a native Ocalan and longtime writer. She can be reached at amy@osbwriters.com.