Shall We Dance?
My wife fell in love with a cowgirl in tight jeans and high boots while line dancing and danced right out of my life. To retaliate I learned to square dance, tap dance, got special shoes, sequined pants, tried Flamenco in Barcelona, danced with bulls, with wolves, tried to explain to the children that their mother left for a cowgirl and there was no way we could continue on as a family, they’d have to choose.
Then I waltzed into the arms of my lame ballerina. Yes lame, how else do you think I could land a ballerina, me with my two left feet? She got run down by a Subaru at the peak of her career, and I took care of her until she broke down and married me.
Now we go dancing on weekends. She has more grace dancing with her mangled left leg than I do in my special shoes, but when she suggested we go line dancing I put my foot down, the only dance move I’ve ever perfected.
I never hear from the children, they chose their mother and started a dance troupe with the cowgirl. We see them on late-night TV from time to time, my ballerina and I. She says they have heart and dance like they’ve been liberated, and I hold my tongue and count my dwindling blessings.