I childishly danced around the room singing my version of the soulful song Supremes’ song, “I’m going to make you love me…yes, I will…yes I will.” Next up was a few bars of Jackson Browne’s, “She’s got to be somebody’s baby…’cause she’s so fine.” My dance ended with gyrations to Nelly’s, “It’s getting hot in here, so take off all your clothes.” By now, I’d worked up a sweat, and had to decide whether I should hop in the shower and spend a quiet night reading or change into my workout clothes and see if I could dance off five pounds before next week. I sprinted to my bedroom, ripping off my work clothes as I went. I threw on my yoga pants and a sloppy t-shirt.

I probably should have changed into a more supportive bra but hey, sometimes the girls liked a little freedom as well. If I was going to bust a move alone in my apartment, what did I care if my tits were flopping around like live fish on the deck of a boat? They certainly weren’t big enough to knock over any table lamps. Truthfully, I was hoping the dancing might perk them up. It’s a little known fact that your breasts are a direct indication of your mood. When you’re happy, they’re perky. When you’re sad or depressed, they’re droopy. My question is how do those ladies with the torpedo tits stay so happy? I bet that if I checked each of their nightstands, I’d find a wide variety of ‘bingo dabbers’.

I closed the living room curtains, lit my wide variety of candles, and turned off all the lights. Before I began dancing, I needed to set the mood. I loved to work out in the dark, which is why I never went to the gym. Not only did I hate all the bright lights and waiting for the equipment, I was terrified I would unknowingly break out into song as I listened to my headphones on the treadmill. People start to stare and the situation really does become uncomfortable, especially when the chorus you’re singing happens to be Barry Manilow’s, “Copacabana”.

I didn’t care if my apartment neighbors heard me because whatever I was doing I was doing in the privacy of my own home. I’m sure I sounded ridiculous to anybody who felt the need to listen. I would try to just lip synch to the music, but every once and a while my voice would escape, blurting out scattered words like; love, lust, rock me gently and paradise by the dashboard light. I’m certain my neighbors perceived I was some sort of hoochie mama who turned into a craving, panting sex kitten after dark.

Or maybe they just thought I was weird. Sex Kitten? Most definitely. Craving? Almost always. Panting? That was just my lungs gasping for any extra oxygen they could find as I danced my mind and body into oblivion. It didn’t matter how stupid I looked, or how many times I almost fell over because I’d lost my balance or tripped over my own feet trying some new move I saw on Saturday Night Dance Party. I didn’t care. When the music moved me, I was inspired, and this inexplicable energy arose in my body, forcing me to shake what my mama gave me. Sometimes when Vicki was over, we would dance together as only best friends could.

But for the most part, I liked to dance alone. I loved going out to clubs and dancing, but it was different. Unless you’d had a whole bunch to drink, you had to restrain yourself and homemade dance routines were definitely taboo. I took pleasure in honing my skills in the living room, so when the day did arrive and the time called for dancing, and I mean real dancing, I would be ready. I danced for my make believe hotties that sat on the sofa drinking shots of tequila and watching my tits bounce. I danced for the high school cheerleaders who would never let me join because they thought I was too clumsy. I danced the tango for my future Latin lover and I danced the twist to help with flexibility issues. But most of all I danced for me because I could and it made me happy.

After Matt’s phone message I danced for two hours straight, and believe me when I went to shower later, I had never seen my breasts so perky. Happiness drenched my body like water on leaves after a rainstorm. The dew wet on my brow, my skin glistening with sexiness. Not only did I feel fantastic I knew I had to look fantastic. My vision was shattered as I gazed in the mirror. My face was purple and splotchy, certainly not the sun kissed colour I had envisioned, my t-shirt was soaked with sweat, and my hair…well I’d rather not discuss it.

Because I danced so gracefully, I needed to wear the big, bulky headphones, not the little ones that were supposed to fit snugly in your ear. I found they always fell out during my forward leap in “It’s Raining Men” which frustrated me to no end, as I would have to stop dancing, replace the headphones, and then try to find my momentum again. With the larger headphones I could jump, twirl and scissor kick (my own personal move) with ease, never having to worry about losing the beat. The main drawback of the larger fully ear-covering headphones was really bad hair. But if that was the price to pay for dancing freedom, I would gladly oblige. A ballerina had her deformed toes and I, the queen of the apartment disco, had my bad hair. At least my hair woes could be cured with a shower. I would hate to go through life never being able to wear sandals.