John, I'm Only Dancing

Strep. It's no fun. Work. I love my job, but there are times it's not fun. By definition work is, well, work. As it should be. So, on a Friday night after illness and navigating the choppy waters that are workplace politics, I want to feel like myself again. What makes up the quintessential Cindy? I'd lost her for a while so in a strange way, I'm getting to know her again. But one thing I know for a fucking fact--she LOVES to dance. And she's not too bad at it either.

Here was the challenge: I had no one to go dancing with. NG (New Guy) has made it clear that Fridays are his me-time and I'm fine with that. Everyone needs space to be themselves, something I denied myself for over a decade. So if Friday is NG's him-time, it's damn well going to be my me-time, too. Not #MeToo time. That would be terrible and tragic and for all those ignorant enough to victim-shame get the fuck off my blog. You got no business utilizing valuable organs much less reading my most personal thoughts. But I digress.

Or do I? Yes, the Me Too movement is about horrible violations of women's bodies and inner selves. But it's also about empowerment. Break the silence. Speak up. Take back your power because you are formidable and beautiful and amazing. And what is more empowering than moving my body to a driving beat and perhaps doing it against a stranger's pulsing body, then dropping the mike and walking away, Ubering home, safe and sound. I should be able to do that, right?

And last night. That's what I fucking did.

Oh the judgement. The slings and arrows from all sides. It was as though I'd decided to participate in a Girls Gone Wild video (not judging, but it is a choice I wouldn't make). To quote the late, great David Bowie, "John, I'm only dancing." But oh no. That's not possible. Is it? What is this? The little town from Footloose? Can it be that a rock-n-roll beat leads only one way? Inexorably to some stranger's bed because my hips don't lie and I'm on tonight? Sorry, that was a lot of pop culture references all mashed-up. But I'm making a point. Bouncing around the dance floor is not ALWAYS a prelude to sex. And if it turns out to be, that's all good, too. As long as it's consensual.

For all my ladies and gentlemen who went out this weekend, had a few drinks, danced like it's the end of the world, and then made whatever choices they WANTED to make, more power to ya. And if you went home alone, it's not abnormal, it's perfectly fucking okay. To paraphrase Shakira once again, my hips don't lie, but they don't make promises either.

Namaste,

Cindy