Not the Last Dance

So we have a friend who's about 60; let's call him David. (That's an inside joke for probably only me. His name actually is David.) David lives in the woods in Connecticut by himself. There are always a number of attractive women interested in David, who is very attractive himself, but he has never married, never settled down for very long. He has a very close family, hobbies he is passionate about, and is smart, well-read, well-traveled and all in all an excellent friend.

Tonight, David was over for dinner and, as is not atypical, excused himself to make a phone call at some point in the evening. When he came back in the room where we sitting, he said, in his quiet, matter-of-fact way, "Well, I've got to get going. I'm meeting a friend to go dancing."

I think we were all a little bit shocked. First of all, there are not any obvious places to go out dancing in the more rural corner of Fairfield County, Connecticut where we live on the weekends. In this particular town, for example, the only real place of business is an apple orchard which, unless you're in the movie Footloose, is not a great place for dancing.

After David left, however, I started thinking about my reaction to his proclamation. I wasn't just surprised. It turns out I was a little bit jealous.

One of the things adult family life does not allow for is a lot of dancing. Or maybe it does for everybody else, maybe every other late thirty- or fortysomething parent of my acquaintence is actually out getting down to live music every weekend, and I've been shut out for previous violations on the dance floor. But I don't think so. My moves may be mediocre, but I happen to know where most of my friends are on a Saturday night, and the answer starts with an "h" and ends with an "ome."

The truth is, I love to dance. Back in my twenties, whenever there was a suitable occasion, even if said occasion was my roommate playing Green Day really loudly in our living room, I would take the bait. In my thirties, there were weddings, lots and lots of weddings, which for me meant two things I loved: free hors d'oeuvres and dancing. Now, as 40 is in sight, if still on the horizon and not the front yard, there is precious little dancing. Sometimes I try, with Lily, but she's not that into dancing with me. Just this afternoon, for example, I tried to teach her a little choreographed move to "Stop, In the Name of Love," and she did it once, half-heartedly, and then said, "Actually, Mama, kids dance differently than grown-ups." Snap.

I'm not sure I used that right, but as I think I've been making perfectly clear, I'm getting a little bit old. And I'm also off-track because what I wanted to get at was not that I wished I were out dancing right now, which is true, but that I love the fact that David is, that it gives me hope that I may have a few dances left in me yet, and not just for when my friends' kids, and mine, start getting married themselves.

This is one of those posts that makes me worry a little that I am turning into a latter-day Erma Bombeck, which is not in every light a terrible thing to be, but is also not my fondest heart's desire. Before I make another almost involuntary dorky play on words, I would like to add something serious.

I used to be really terrified of growing up. And then I became really terrified of growing older. Although I'd still prefer 25 if handed to me on a platter, I'm not terrfied anymore. I'm really not.

This may be a natural function of growing older. Terror of the inevitable is a difficult state to sustain for decades. But I like to think it is in part a tribute to people like David, who show me again and again that growing older is not a transformation into a different self but what happens to a person over the passing of time. (Is this "Wherever you go, there you are," again, with the wherever you're going being into your future?)

So thank you, David, for spontaneously going out dancing in ruralish Connecticut on a Saturday night. I hope they played some Motown. Thank you Dad, for still partaking in the full court press. Thank you Mom, for listening to mixes on your i-pod, Mr. Caplice for rocking a Harley all over coastal Massachusetts and beyond, Mr. Harding for staying on the slopes, Aunt Sheila for taking Southwest Harbor Sheila to the actual Southwest, and my neighbor Abe, who is in his 80s, for riding your bike all over lower Manhattan. At night. Thank you Mormor, for being sharp enough to find it funny when I asked you earlier tonight if you were an organ donor--know that over and over you make me forget that you are 92.

To bring this home, as I think it's calling out to be brought, I will say that I am pretty sure I have a vague and fuzzy memory from my wedding that I just pulled into my conscious mind. The image: Mormor, surrounded by my friends and relatives, doing the Macarena.