You Should Be Dancing

My friend Charley Ann and I used to enjoy dancing at bat mitzvahs, thirteenth birthday parties, and sweet sixteens so much that we would forgo the dinner buffet to embrace the open floor, sashaying the span towards one another while our peers took a break for some chicken nuggets. Once, we had a friend approach and ask if we were drunk. The answer has always been no.

Something else about these parties: the most common song for the father-daughter dance was “I Hope You Dance” by Lee Ann Womack and Sons of the Desert. I’m sure you’ve heard it. I’ve always been a strong believer of this message in a very literal sense, but too many don’t take Lee Ann’s advice.

This past weekend, my family threw our fourth Hillstock Music Festival, uniting a hundred people in our backyard from all branches of our lives under the umbrella of great music. I was on my feet dancing until midnight, sweating through our custom light blue t-shirt and my dark denim cutoffs, thankful for my sister’s French braiding skills for keeping my hair off my neck. When I got the chance, I danced. I did not sit it out, and anyone at the party can attest to that. Nor did I have a single alcoholic beverage all night, except for a sip from [let’s assume my legal-aged] sister’s vodka lemonade and another from her Truly fruit punch.

Now, this is not a call for all-out sobriety. (Though I am advocating for getting to a point where you don’t need tequila to dance like a drunk.) This is a call for the spirit to be comfortable stepping out on a dance floor, with hundreds of people you know watching, and dancing your heart out even though you don’t know how. (And I really don’t know how to dance, at least according to my sisters. But I try.) I’m also not calling for this unbridled confidence to bleed into all aspects of life, because then I would be a hypocrite. I’m here to say that if there’s music playing, and people dancing, you should always try to be one of those people.

I am lucky that I come from parents who know how to have fun when the rock n’ roll strikes up. In fact, they are quite often the reason the music starts in the first place. I am lucky to have been raised with music always in the background and to have been introduced to the artists of my parents’ generation who, in my opinion, still reign supreme. I’ve been taught that when music comes on, you dance.

I am not going to dig myself into a metaphor here, but Lee Ann Womack had the idea. Perhaps I embarrassed myself with my moves this weekend. Perhaps it was laughable when my whole family got on stage and sang “Shallow” in what can only be described as banshee fashion. But I danced. And I sang. And looking back, I am glad I did.

Not to toot my own horn (rather, to state a fact): the world needs more people who will release their inhibitions when the opportunity presents itself. Who cares what other people think? You should never be embarrassed about having a good time, even with the weight of watching eyes. In fact, there is a likely chance those watchers wish they had the guts to be you and leave it all out on the floor. And when you think about it, dancing is not a performance for anybody but yourself. Dancing makes you feel happy and loose, especially when you can sing along. And I can claim all of this emotion even as the “non-dancer” of the family.

I want to say thank you to all the folks who joined us in dancing to Boxcar and Old School in my backyard—those who let loose with friends and complete strangers alike. I am not here to say much more than that. But I will say that whenever I get the chance, whether it’s at a wedding or while I am washing dishes to the radio, I will dance. And not to train for anything but life, to impress anyone but myself, or to burn off anything but the stressors of the day.

Bust a move. Drop it low. Shake a leg. Cut a rug. Etc. And next year, be sure to find yourself beside me in the backyard for Hillstock number five. I won’t judge.